


though the stars walk backward

by dawnstruck



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Galra!Keith, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Romance, slave!Keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Shiro is captured by the Galra, he loses his team, his arm, and his freedom.<br/>The one thing he gains is Keith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by various alien!Keith theories and also this lovely fanart: http://seitou.tumblr.com/post/147422116750/so-this-was-from-an-au-idea-where-galrakeith-is-a. So after getting permission from seitou, I just had to write for it. 
> 
> I was contemplating whether to make a oneshot out of this or a three-parter, but then I decided to go for shorter chapters and take things as they come. I've got the basic outline - and all of the angst - planned, but I don't have a fixed schedule yet. We'll see where we're going with this.
> 
> Warning for slight OOCness, considering this is canon divergent, Shiro is still in captivity, and Keith has obviously led a very different life.
> 
> Also, time measurements will be the same as the ones that are used on Earth. I can't be arsed to think my way around the intricacies of outer space. Same goes for languages. Everyone just kind of understands each other. I don't think canon ever even mentioned that problem. So deal with it.
> 
> EDIT: Honestly, I consider this pretty much the worst thing I ever wrote, but it still seems to be rather popular so that's the only reason I haven't taken it down, even though it is a constant thorn in my side. My other works are so much better, I promise. ^^'

They keep him semi-conscious during the surgery to make sure his nerves respond to the attachment of the cybernetic arm, and it's nothing but red hot agony and the taste of bile at the back of his throat. Once it is over he passes out, falling into blissful darkness, no sedatives needed.

It lasts for days, barely interrupted by short hazy fragments of wakefulness and the sensation of careful hands on him as they wipe the sweat from his brow. He longs to lean into them, savor the cool touch, but through his half-lidded eyes he catches sight of purple skin and shies away instead.

On the fourth day, the fever goes down and Shiro wakes with a line of fire searing along his shoulder where the bionic limb is joint to his scarred flesh.

He vaguely recalls the exultant roars of _Champion! Champion!_ throughout the stadium, his opponent dead at his feet, while his right arm hung off him in shreds. They must have taken him right into surgery then, he thinks, unwilling to lose their beast and the masses' favor. He just wishes they would have let him die.

He keeps his eyes shut for a long moment before he finally forces them open, blearily sits up in his bed.

It's not actually his bed, though, much too broad and more comfortable than the narrow bunk in the cell he had inhabited before. Accommodation for a recovering patient or a reward for the new hero?

“Master,” a voice says, sounding slightly mechanic, slightly stiff, “You are awake?”

Shiro turns his head.

Off to the side by the door of this unfamiliar room kneels an even less familiar Galran.

In fact, he is the smallest Galran Shiro has ever seen, but then again, the Galrans he usually sees are all military personnel. This one does definitely not fit that category, too lithe and slender to match his comrades' bulk.

“I will call a druid,” the Galran informs him without waiting for an answer and smoothly stands up to push one of the buttons on the palette next to the door.

Shiro swallows, his throat dry, his tongue thick in his mouth, and it's too hard to speak just now. He watches as the Galran pushes another button and the room turns unpleasantly bright around them.

Shiro hisses quietly, lifts his arm to shield his eyes, hisses more loudly when it aggravates the fresh wound. The Galran glances over his shoulder, but doesn't apologize, doesn't show sympathy. But then again, he is Galran.

In that moment, the door slides open. A guard steps in, steps aside to make room for a slightly smaller druid. They both completely ignore the other Galran who kneels back down once more but now with a tense anticipation to his posture, like waiting to jump up at any second, to serve or to fight or anything at all.

But then a shadow falls over Shiro and he is distracted by the businesslike expression of the druid in front of him.

A druid, not a doctor, he thinks and clenches his jaw. They hadn't wanted to heal him. He was nothing but an investment to them. He had won the tournament, literally single-handedly towards the end. They simply wanted even more victories out of him, and the new arm would ensure that.

The druid isn't unnecessarily rough with him now, nothing compared to the blazing pain of the surgery, but his bedside manner is still terrible, at least by human standards. He does not ask how Shiro feels, just examines the seams between skin and steel, holds a pencil-like device to it to measure the neural connectivity.

In the end, he gives a satisfied grunt and nods to himself.

“When will he be able to fight again?” the guard asks as the healer makes some annotations on his electronic clipboard.

“In about two weeks he should be able to use his arm normally and without any undue amounts of pain. Then the rehabilitation can begin. Depending on his process he might be able to resume his training in about two months.”

The guard nods and then the healer is already turning on his heel and leaving again without another word.

Shiro fights down the nausea. He does not want to return to the arena. He had thought that if he won, if he survived, that would be the end of it. That he might even be granted freedom. But that had been naive. The Galrans wouldn't possibly give him a chance to return to Earth and warn his fellow humans of just what was coming for them.

“Are you hungry?” the guard asks in that moment and Shiro looks up at him.

He knows this guard. He is one of the nicer ones, the one who had often wished Shiro good luck before a fight or given him some extra rations. Shiro could appreciate the small niceties when there were little others to be had.

He gives a slow, careful nod, still not quite capable of speaking after what he had endured.

“You there,” the Galran addresses the boy by the door, “You heard him.”

Immediately the boy jumps up and scampers out of the room, doubtlessly to go hunt down some meal.

Shiro takes a deep breath, licks his chapped lips.

“Where am I?” he asks hoarsely. It's still the same old battleship, he knows, but this must definitely be a different bay. This room cannot possibly be back where the rest of the prisoners were kept.

“Level 3,” the guard answers casually, “You got upgraded.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“As the new champion you'll be allowed more amenities and liberties.”

“Liberties,” Shiro cocks an eyebrow, “Does that mean I'll be allowed to return to my planet?”

The Galran sends him a bleak grin, “'fraid not. And best not talk that way. Your victory in the arena has indirectly sworn you to the Galran Empire. Don't let anyone assume you'd wanna leave.”

“Because no one might expect that of a prisoner,” Shiro huffs, “So what are these amenities then? Decent food?”

As if on cue, the Galran boy returns, bearing a laden tray and setting it down on the bedside table, before quickly and quietly returning to his corner.

“That, too,” the guard nods, “You'll be allowed to walk around more freely, though mostly to see yourself to the training facilities. Some credits to spend in the entertainment bay. This room here. And, well, him, of course.”

And he jerks his chin over to the silent boy.

Shiro frowns, “... him?”

“A slave,” the guard explains, “For, uh, whatever.”

He follows it up with a vague gesture before rubbing the back of his neck.

Shiro stares, stupefied. “What.”

“What what?”

“How's that- A slave? I'm a prisoner and you're giving a slave who is one of your own?”

“Well,” the guard pulls a face, “He's a runt, you see. I mean, look at him. He's barely worth anything.”

Shiro's stomach drops. The boy is very pointedly staring at the wall across from him, seemingly ignoring their conversation even though he must be painfully aware of it.

“I don't want a slave,” Shiro stammers, “I- why would you even do this?”

The guard shrugs, “This is your reward and his punishment.”

Shiro tries to ignore the fact that because of the lives he has taken in the arena, he is given another one to play with. Instead he chooses to focus on the latter part of the revelation.

“Punishment?” he asks, “For what?

“He defied a superior,” the guard says, throwing a derisive look at the boy, “So he has to learn obedience. If he displeases you we will find more suitable work for him.”

The Yes is almost on Shiro's tongue at that because he does not want this boy as his... attendant or whatever. Except. Except the guard's words make the boy flinch violently before shrinking in on himself.

Shiro does not even want to imagine what further demotion might mean for the kid.

“No,” he says, though it rolls off his tongue with much hesitance, “He... he'll do.”

“Great,” the guard grins again, “Enjoy your food and take it easy. The people will want see you back in the game as soon as possible.”

Shiro nods and watches as the guard leaves again. Then he turns towards the food. He's mostly gotten used to Galran cuisine, but he still doesn't think he can stomach much of anything at the moment.

There's a bowl with some broth in it, though, and it does at least smell acceptable, so he scoots towards the tray. His body feels heavy and his new foreign hand keeps shaking so he reaches out with his left instead to pick up the spoon. It feels awkward and delicate between his fingers. The last tool he handled was a long curved blade which he used to slit his opponents throat. His left hand begins shaking as well.

In that moment the boy chooses to finally speak up once more.

“Do you require help, master?” he asks and Shiro throws him a look.

“You want to feed me?”

“If you wish it,” the boy says, but he sounds full of spite.

“No, thanks,” Shiro snorts and forces his hand to into stillness by sheer power of will.

He manages to eat most of the broth, with little embarrassment involved, but then his stomach begins to rumble in warning and he decides to not try his luck.

He sets the spoon down again, stares down at his lap. Then he struggles to his feet.

His knees nearly buckle under his weight and a wave of dizziness makes everything tilt sideways, but then he catches himself and crosses the small room with heavy steps.

The kid does not move but still he seems to be melting closer to the wall. His gaze is not outright on Shiro, just suspiciously watching him from underneath lowered lashes when Shiro comes to a halt in front of him.

“Stand up, please,” Shiro says, hoping it does not sound too much like an order.

So the boy stands, even if his shoulder are still hunched inwards, making him appear even smaller.

For a Galran he really must be a runt, Shiro admits, for the boy is several inches shorter than even him who has been called puny and weak by many Galran soldiers before. He's humanoid enough, safe for the most obvious differences such as his lavender skin and unruly purple hair. His eyes, too, gleam violet in the harsh fluorescent lights from above. There's no violence in them, though, just a curbed fire, like embers under ashes.

He's also dressed differently from other Galrans, obviously not given the advantage of armor or even weaponry. Instead, he is wearing a simply off-white tunic, short and cinched around his waist, exposing his long slim limbs.

He's pretty, Shiro admits with a sour taste in his mouth, and suddenly the many implications of the word 'slave' take an even nastier turn.

Shiro bites his tongue.

“What's your name?” he asks, keeping his voice even.

“... Kithnarak,” the boy answers, clearly reluctant to do so, and not for the first time Shiro finds himself faced with the realization that the pronunciation of most alien names is not one of his strengths.

“Kiz- Kith-,” he fumbles around the unwieldy syllables before giving up in vague embarrassment, “… May I call you Keith?”

“You may call me whatever you wish, Master.”

The lines sound rehearsed, like a recording. There is no meaning behind them; the Galran keeps his voice flat and his gaze on the floor.

“It's like a nickname,” Shiro tries to explain, “Like Shiro.”

“Shi...ro?” the boy glances up.

“That's me,” Shiro smiles encouragingly, “Takashi Shirogane. But my friends call me Shiro.”

The word 'friends' immediately has the Galran looking down again.

“You are Master or Champion. I am your slave.”

Shiro's stomach turns.

“No,” he says vehemently. He is sick of inmate numbers and insults and titles. Just this once he wants to remember who he is. “You will call me Shiro, or-”

He stops himself, not wanting to turn it into a threat. He does not want the boy to think that he would throw him back to the wolves, even if he conducts himself incorrectly.

“Just call me Shiro and I will call you Keith,” he finishes, decidedly more mellow now. He feels tired, but in a way that no sleep will ever do away with. “Is there anywhere I could take a shower?”

“There is an adjoining bathroom,” Keith tells him, “I will ready it for you.”

His own bathroom. He hasn't even had that back at the Garrison. And he only had to kill dozens of other poor bastards to gain this luxury.

For a moment he considers rejecting Keith's offer. He can prepare his own damn bathroom. But he is exhausted and he could use a little help.

“Yes,” he nods, “That would be nice.”

“Whatever pleases you,” Keith says and Shiro lets out a little sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say 'Vol-', you say '-tron'! Vol-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme just say, WHOA! I was not expecting to get so much feedback for that one meager chapter. It turns out that writing for a very new fandom that already has a huge following is very gratifying as an artist because everyone is so starved for content. I would know, I've already read through half of the Sheith tag. Ahem.

The days pass between slate gray walls and the infinity of space while Shiro fights the lingering pain and the phantom sensation of his lost limb. Galra science and medicine are much advanced and in this regard, at least, it works in Shiro's favor. On Earth he would most likely still be bedridden, but here he is already moving around, itching for something to do.

Before his last fight, they had let him train almost all the time, so that it what he had done. Once upon a time, working out had been a pleasure. He had enjoyed the sensations in his body, the strain, the satisfaction when he was done. But on the battleship there was always the thought that he had to get stronger or else he would die, would be discarded like a boring toy.

It was also his only pastime. Most of the other prisoners tended to keep away from him, afraid of his reputation. They let him join the occasional card game but that was never enough to stave off the ennui.

So he trained. Trained until his body ached all over, and then he trained some more until the numbness set in. The burn in his muscles distracted him from the ever-present fear and worry in his head, kept him from biting his lips raw, let him fall asleep in exhaustion, relatively untouched by nightmares.

Now, though, he has been ordered to rest.

He has been given permission to visit the entertainment bay, but it's full of Galra soldiers and he has absolutely no inclination to mingle with them. And what good would it do him anyway? He could try to win some more credits, of course, but there was little he could buy with that. He's being given better food, after all, and whatever Galra equivalent of alcohol exists does not appeal to him, not before and certainly not now that the temptation to drink his pain away has grown much too big.

They keep prostitutes on board as well, as Shiro has learned from several raunchy stories that get passed around among the soldiers, but even if he were inclined towards paying for sexual favors, the workers in question would all be alien to him anyway. He has little enough experience with sex as it is. He doesn't want to figure out how it would even work with another species.

Besides, he thinks wryly, looking up when the door to his room slides open, that's what his new slave was meant for anyway.

No one actually told him so, but it had been clear from the comments he has been getting from his guards. Sometimes they were the simplest of winks, similar to the ones the cadets at the Garrison had often exchanged among each other in good humor. Sometimes they were disparaging remarks regarding Keith's status and half-hearted kicks send into the boy's direction.

“He's to your satisfaction, then?” an overseer had asked conversationally, as though inquiring about the weather.

“Yes,” Shiro had growled out between gritted teeth.

“Good, good,” the overseer had bobbed his head, “Once you're back to full health, though, you ought to work him harder. Yesterday he mouthed off to the cook.”

It's not difficult to imagine. Keith rarely speaks in Shiro's presence and never out of line, but that doesn't exactly come as a surprise. He probably assumes that talking back to his so-called master is a much greater offense, one that he cannot risk without actually endangering himself. So he obviously needs to vent his frustrations elsewhere.

“I will... work him harder,” Shiro had forced out, just to get the overseer off his case. There was no telling what might be done to Keith if someone caught on to the fact that Shiro really did not want a slave.

The overseer had hummed in agreement and then turned to leave.

“And you,” he had told Keith, one of his fingers raised in warning, “You make sure to follow the Champion's every order.”

Shiro didn't know whether Galra could even blush but he had never seen Keith do so. Instead, the boy had just violently glared down at the floor and kept his tongue.

Since then Shiro has found himself wondering what might be going on in Keith's head. What he would be saying if could openly speak his mind. If he weren't a slave. If he trusted Shiro.

“Good morning, Keith,” he greets now, watching as Keith sets down breakfast in front of him.

“Master,” Keith says tonelessly, already stepping back again.

He still hasn't given up on that stupid title, so Shiro pauses, contemplates a different approach.

“I can't possibly eat all that,” he claims, indicating to the overladen tray, “Care to join me?”

“I am to eat with the other servants,” Keith replies, hands folded behind his back.

“I doubt they are feeding you properly,” Shiro tells him and then makes a point of eyeing Keith from head to toe, “You wanna stay a runt forever?”

Keith's eyes flash dangerously. Then he roughly pulls out a chair and sits down on it.

Having expected this, Shiro just picks up one of the plates and pushes it towards him. Keith glares but accepts it, so Shiro offers him an open smile.

The answering look on Keith's face is hard to describe. Surprise and suspicion maybe. Something more vulnerable than that. Shiro swallows.

“Dig in,” he says and then grabs something that vaguely passes as a sandwich. Even a meal shared in silence has the habit of building a vague sense of camaraderie, he knows and hopes that this time won't be any different.

From underneath lowered lashes, he watches as Keith takes the fork, holding it like a weapon. He stabs it down at one of the unappealing brown lentils, as though imagining it to be someone else entirely, but when he eats it he does so daintily, thoroughly chewing it before swallowing.

For a moment Shiro considers the very real possibility that they might be starving the boy, but he does look relatively healthy. Instead, it seems to be Shiro's presence that has Keith holding back.

“I'm... not going to make you spit it out again,” he points out and Keith freezes.

“I- wasn't-,” he stutters, makes to put the fork down again.

“Just... enjoy the food,” Shiro tells him and, more gently, he adds, “I'm not like them.”

There's a part of Shiro wants to hate all of Galra, but he knows it's unreasonable. Some of them strike him as good people who don't know any better, who are just doing their job, who are scared. They, too, are part of the system which slowly grinds away like a millstone, wearing away any resistance, any objections.

Keith himself is a prime example for what happened to you if you didn't fit.

They sit in stilted silence, Keith eating with a little more confidence, Shiro wondering whether he can turn this stubborn boy into something like an ally.

“What did you do... before?” he finds himself asking and then winces at how blunt that questions sounds, like roughly digging his fingers into the wound of Keith's past, reminding him of his time before his enslavement, his fall from grace.

“... I was a pilot,” Keith mumbles, probably more out of obligation than any willingness to make smalltalk with his master. But that same smalltalk is all Shiro has.

So he just cocks an eyebrow, surprised that the Galra would allow someone they regarded so lowly to pilot one of their ships.

“A cargo pilot,” Keith amends, before spitefully adding, “But I was good at it.”

He catches himself then, as though he had given away too much, of his story, of his pride, and he's still staring down at his plate, mouth clamped shut again.

“I was a pilot, too,” Shiro tells him warmly, “Though from what I've heard even your cargo ships are a great deal more complex than even our most impressive deep space vessels.”

Keith's gaze zaps up so quickly it's a surprise his eyes don't pop out of his head. He's looking at Shiro as though he were an enigma that just doesn't make sense, no matter from which angle he tries to inspect it.

“The big ones, maybe,” he says, obviously trying to gauge Shiro's reaction, “I'm only licensed for the smaller ones that interact between the base and the ship. They're not really made for deep space travel.”

Shiro chuckles, “For a simple human like me that's still pretty damn impressive.”

Keith angles his head, narrows his eyes. “Human,” he says, “Is that... your species?”

“Yes,” Shiro nods. He is not surprised that the boy has never heard of them. According to Galra standards, humanity was to be considered a primitive race after all.

“What is your planet called?” Keith asks, “Where is it?”

“Well, we call it Earth which, I guess, is not very creative,” Shiro admits, scratching his head, “And as to where... You have different names for the planets. I wouldn't know how to describe it to you.”

Roman gods, after all, held no meaning to the Galra. Not to mention that, even after all this time, Shiro still had no idea how quickly this ship was moving or which course it had taken.

As a child, he had once almost drowned in the sea, and somehow it had left him with the profound realization just how vast and unpredictable the world's ocean were, how they were still mostly unexplored and full of secrets. But then he had turned towards the stars and the skies instead with its begging call and the pioneering spirit the Garrison promised. Now he has seen more of the universe than possibly any other human being and all he wants it to be that little boy, wet and gasping in the sands at the beach.

Some shadow must have fallen on his face then because when he pulls himself back to reality, Keith is very studiously staring back down at his plate, avoiding eye contact.

Their conversation is very clearly over and the resuming silence is not entirely a comfortable one.

But they had talked, like equals, if only for a few short moments. It's not ground-breaking, not breath-taking. But it's a start.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, the chapters for this all end up being rather short, but that just means I'll probably be able to update more quickly. How does Sunday sound for a posting schedule?
> 
> Also, who else was destroyed by the Season 2 trailer and re-made by the knowledge that we will be getting more robo lion idiots within this year? I felt so giddy when I first found out. Why am I so in love?


	3. Chapter 3

Shiro wakes with a half-stifled scream and his cybernetic arm blindly lashing out at whoever had bent over him. His hand connects sharply with someone's head, followed by a loud noise, metal clattering on metal.

Shiro's eyes fly open and he surges upright, half prepared to kill the intruder, the attacker, the enemy. From his periphery he can see his new arm come alive with a sickly Galra purple hue. In front of him, cowering at his feet, sits Keith.

He's got one arm protectively lifted above his head, but the other is just idly hanging at his side, almost careless. Like he knows it wouldn't do much good anyway. Around him there is a mess of what was probably supposed to be Shiro's dinner.

“My apologies, master,” Keith says when it becomes apparent that Shiro's has frozen in his movement, “I did not intent to startle you.”

“I- what-,” Shiro shakes his head, hoping to clear it. Only then does it occur to him to lower his arm. Slowly, Keith does the same.

“You were... talking in your sleep,” Keith explains, almost tactfully considering that Shiro must have had one hell of a nightmare, though right now he cannot even remember its details. “I should not have tried to wake you.”

“No,” Shiro's breath hitches, “That wasn't your fault, you couldn't have known. I- I hit you, didn't I?”

There is a beat of silence during which Keith seems to contemplate how to answer.

“It doesn't matter,” he says at length, “You are not very strong.”

The hit had still knocked him down, though, and must have send his head ringing. Yet it's impossible to pinpoint whether he is just trying to preserve his own dignity or whether he doesn't want Shiro to worry.

“Still,” Shiro lets out a shuddering breath, “I apologize.”

Again one of those suspiciously searching looks, but then Keith is already turning toward the spilled food.

“Let me- let me help you with that,” Shiro tries clumsily, sliding off the bed to crouch next to Keith.

“That is not appropriate behavior for you, master,” Keith says and Shiro's nerves are already too frayed for any of this.

“Will you stop it with that slave bullshit,” he grinds out, “We're both prisoners here so let's not pretend otherwise. I'm not better than you are and I can clean up my own damn mess.”

Keith doesn't have a response for that and then they just pick up the fallen plates, putting them back onto the tray. There is still the actual food strewn all over, though, and Shiro does not want to acknowledge that he should ask Keith to get a wet cloth.

Instead he just purses his lips in petty self-righteousness and tugs his shirt over his head, before using it to mop the floor.

He can feel Keith watching him, silently judging him, but then it turns into a prickle on his bare skin.

Shiro has already suspected that Keith had been the one to nurse him back to health after his surgery so the boy must already be familiar with seeing Shiro at least half-naked. But now Shiro is conscious and tragically aware of the many scars that litter his body. Does Keith look at him an see the Champion? Does he pity or envy him? Does he realize that maybe there is some truth to the fact that Shiro doesn't want to be here either?

“I will bring you new food,” Keith says eventually, making to stand up again.

“Don't bother,” Shiro huffs, rubbing his wrist over his forehead, “I'm not really hungry anyway.”

The reason he had even laid down for a nap was because he was feeling groggy with boredom and that, in turn, must have fueled his overactive imagination.

“You dreamed... very vividly,” Keith tells him carefully, curiously, “Even worse than when you were feverish after you surgery.”

There is a question in there, one that Shiro feels reluctant to answer. But he can also appreciate the fact that, for the first time, Keith is reaching out to him, is possibly showing some kind of concern that goes beyond his regard for his master.

“I... don't quite remember it,” Shiro admits, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead, “It might have been about the surgery actually.”

He still hasn't forgotten the pain after all, and the Galra druids' yellow eyes like floodlights above him, peeling back his fragile skin to expose his innermost core, a vivisection, a butterfly's wing ripped off to weigh it down with metal instead.

“Or... or the arena maybe,” he reconsiders with a pained expression, “I've dreamed about that before.”

Keith frowns, “Fighting in the arena is an honor. And you have proven yourself to be Champion.”

Shiro snorts in derision, “They made me fight for my life. They made me kill. There is no honor in that.”

He still has to swallow the bile at that thought, that manner in which he tries to justify his crimes, his survival as the only way in which he might somehow warn his fellow humans of what was coming for them.

“And I only got the title of Champion,” he adds bitterly, “Because I attacked my friend in order to protect him.”

“That does not make any sense,” Keith remarks.

“I injured him so he would be unfit to fight,” Shiro elaborates and gives a full-bodied shrug as though trying to throw the oppressive weight off his shoulders, “Hell, maybe I crippled him, maybe they just killed him afterwards. I don't even know.”

The only thing he had known in that moment was that Matt would not last even a minute in the arena. Matt who misplaced his glasses on a regular basis, who told Shiro stories about his dog and his little sister Katie, who was as much of a science geek as his father was – Matt was not meant to be a killer. Shiro, however, apparently was.

“They call you Champion because of your blood thirst,” Keith says, almost mildly, almost as though to correct him on a minor error, “Because you fight without fear.”

“Without fear?” Shiro echoes incredulously, finally stumbling up to his feet, tossing aside his ruined shirt and fishing for a new one in the wardrobe, turning away so he doesn't have to show Keith his face. “When they put you out there, you fight because of your fear. Because you are scared shitless, scared of hurting and of dying, of never making it out of here. So you fight and you pray and you kill, and by the end of it they call you Champion, as though you actually wanted their applause when your own hands are still trembling and covered in blood.”

His hands are shaking right now as well, are shaking again as he fumbles his way into the shirt. He smooths the fabric over his belly, his hardened abs that feel so terribly vulnerable.

“I'm no warrior, Keith,” he says and swallows around the lump in his throat, “I'm a pilot and- and I like cats and late night walks and comic books and I was never meant to be here.”

He doesn't like what life here has turned him into, doesn't like his muscles and his scars and the stress that has leeched the color from his hair, has bleached his idealism into something pale and anxious. He is scared of himself sometimes. Scared of what he might still become.

When he finally turns around again he finds that Keith is no longer kneeling on the floor. Instead he is openly looking at Shiro with his wide and violet eye, his narrow shoulders squared.

“But you are,” he says decisively, “You are here.”

Shiro's breath hitches. “Yes,” he agrees, “I am.”

“And I,” Keith adds, “I am here, too.”

“Yes,” Shiro knows, “Yes.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be moving to the US this week so I don't know when I'll be properly hooked up to the internet again, but I'll try to make next week's update on time.  
> I promise, this story will get some semblance of plot sometime soon, but I want to establish Keith and Shiro's personalities first.  
> And thank you so so much for the wonderful feedback. I really wasn't expecting such an enthusiatic response for this. <3


	4. Chapter 4

Shiro is going up the walls with boredom. There are no books for him, and Galra music sucks balls with how patriotic it is. So Shiro lounges around and refrains from sniping at the guards who regularly drop by. He makes a game of counting the intermissions, but that just makes him sleepy and even more grouchy.

He misses Earth. He had been keenly aware of it already during the Kerberos mission, but then there had still been the excitement of his first deep space mission, not to mention that he still had Matt and Sam around him, as well as being able to have transmissions with the Garrison.

Here everything is still mostly unfamiliar. And whenever Shiro feels like he is slowly getting used to things, to the food and the hard edge in the way the Galra speak, he has to remind himself to not let it turn into placation. He must not become at ease here, must not start to enjoy his new status as Champion.

He is a prisoner and, quite possibly, the only one who can prevent Earth from becoming just another victim in the long line of Zarkon's conquests.

“Is there anything you need, master?” Keith asks and Shiro lifts his head from where he had it buried in a pillow.

“Shiro,” he corrects automatically and then sighs, “Company maybe?”

Keith gives him a searching look.

“Just sit down,” Shiro tells him, pushing himself into a sitting position and patting the mattress in open invitation.

Keith slinks closer like a cat that has known too many cruel hands and parks his bony ass a good meter farther to the right left that Shiro had indicated.

Shiro gives a yawn and smiles into his hollow palm.

“What do you do?” he asks, “When you're not here, I mean.”

“I take care of other menial tasks,” Keith says, “Such as cleaning.”

Shiro frowns, “You have to do that on top of... working for me?”

Keith shrugs, “Only when the overseer thinks I'm not pulling my weight.”

“So... if I send you away, he makes you work more?” Shiro concludes.

Keith lips purse slightly and that is really answer enough.

“Do you at least get to mingle with others?” Shiro asks, “Meet your friends?”

“I've never needed friends,” Keith grits out spitefully, “Not before and certainly not now.”

Because Keith had always been regarded as lesser and now, as a slave, there were even fewer who would want to associate with him. Shiro doesn't even bother to ask about the boy's family.

“Well,” he points out lightly, “We are friends now, so you better get that way of thinking out of your head.”

The look on Keith's face clearly says that he thinks Shiro has gotten knocked over the head one too many time during his time in the arena, but knows better than to voice his thoughts.

“It's important to have friends,” Shiro rambles on, just for something to do, “I know you Galra like to act like fame in battle is all there is to life, but it doesn't work that way. I for once would rather be remembered as someone's buddy than as anyone's Champion.”

He's thinking of his friends then, the cadets and the junior officers, of his counselor and his roommates and his tutor. He wonders whether they simply took the news of his death at face value, whether they mourned for him or loathed him for failing the Kerberos mission. He wonders whether anyone misses him for him.

He closes his eyes for a long moment, breathes deeply through his nose to keep the tears at bat. Since he was taken captive, he had not allowed himself to cry even once. Sometimes he wonders whether he should, just to get it out of his system, try to lift the weight off his shoulders for a few precious moments. Sometimes he wants to do it in front of the Galra, just out of spite. Admission to weakness was, after all, a sign of strength all of its own.

“I am your slave,” Keith says, “I cannot be... your friend, but...”

And then Keith reaches out a hand, bridging the distance between them. For a moment there is something akin to hesitation there, before he seems to give himself a push and bridges the last inch. He puts his hand on Shiro's forearm, sprawls his long bony fingers around his wrist and then smooths the pad of his thumb over the blue veins there.

Shiro finds himself strangely mesmerized by the sight, by the touch, finds himself rooted to the spot and somehow in awe at Keith's newfound forwardness, and he marvels at the contrast between them, broad and narrow, desert sand and soft lavender. In contrast, Keith's crisscrossing veins are deep purple and Shiro realizes he has never seen a Galra bleed.

But even while he is watching, something entirely unexpected happens. Because Keith's skin shifts and shivers and then the color on him seems to pale, to fade away into into a light tan.

For a moment, Shiro can do nothing but stare. Then he jerks his head up, only to come face to face with someone who looks like Keith and yet not.

The Galra Kithnarak whose eyes are yellow and purple, who has big fuzzy ears but sharp teeth and claws, who looks humanoid but little more – that Keith is replaced by someone who surely cannot have been born anywhere but on Earth.

Shiro startles, jerks his arm free on instinct, unable to keep himself from openly staring.

Keith himself seems hesitant but strangely determined.

Shiro licks his lips. “What-,” he tries, stops, begins again, “How did you-?”

He trails off, stares some more.

“When I touch another living organism similar to mine I can adapt my physiology to it,” Keith reveals, furtively watching Shiro, obviously waiting for a more definite reaction.

“You... can shapeshift?” Shiro translates, his voice disbelieving. After having his entire world turned upside down during the past months, he really shouldn't be so easily flabbergasted. But some things are still just incomprehensible.

“You... dislike the Galra,” Keith says by way of explanation, “I thought you might be more comfortable with this.”

Thing is, Shiro is. Thing is, Keith's white skin and rounded ears make Shiro ache for home in a way he hasn't experienced in a while. The first human Shiro has seen in months and it's not even a real human.

The homesickness threatens to set in again, but at the same time he cannot help the wide-eyed fascination coursing through his veins. He has never been a scientist, not like Matt and Sam, but Keith's unexpected ability still has him leaning in close.

“How does it work?” he asks eagerly, and he thinks of octopuses and chameleons who are able to blend into their surroundings, but this is something else entirely. Keith has not simply imitated the way Shiro looks. And most likely he has never even seen another human being. So how has he created one seemingly from scratch?

“I can... read the data encoded in your DNA,” Keith reveals hesitantly, “And then I adapt a random combination.”

Random indeed, Shiro marvels. The most obvious resemblance between them would be that Keith carries Asian features as well, but that is were the similarities stop. His hair is dark brown, his skin a shade lighter than Shiro's. Only his stature and the shape of his face haven't changed, and the color of his eyes is more purple than blue.

Shiro stares and tries to figure out whether maybe he can identity any features that remind him of his grandfather or his mother, any clue at all that this was taken straight from his DNA.

He narrows his eyes.

“I think your lips look like Ami's,” he mutters, more to himself than anything else. Keith blinks at him.

“Ami?” he asks and it sounds like he is tasting the rich flavor of a foreign spice on his tongue for the first time.

“My cousin,” Shiro says and promptly grows wistful. He hadn't seen her since before he joined the Garrison. He hadn't seen anyone dear to him in over a year, first because of the Kerberos mission and then because he was kidnapped.

They must all thing that him dead, he knows.

It's not as though he was oblivious to how the Garrison worked. It was, primarily, a military institution run by the government. If there was a hitch in the plan, anything that would make them look bad, they'd try to find a different scapegoat.

There was no chance in hell that they had simply announced the unexpected disappearance of their ship, especially not so shortly after Shiro had reported on their successful landing. Most likely, the Garrison had come up with a cover story so no one would ask any undue questions.

Doctor Holt's reputation had been too outstanding and as his son Matt wouldn't have gotten dragged through the mud either. So the blame would fall probably fall to Shiro who would no longer be able to defend himself, who was essentially a nobody. Piloting error. Easier than blaming the engineers or the mission set-up itself.

Sometimes, Shiro thinks he should be more outraged about that simple truth, thinks he should be upset that his superiors had surely not hesitated to wrong him so. But at the same time he just hopes that they figured out what really happened to their team. He hopes that, somewhere down on Earth, the government is furiously preparing for an overwhelming foe.

He knows it's in vain, though. He had heard some of the things the Zarkon has done to expand his empire. He knows the Galrans consider humanity a primitive race and the Garrison had little enough resources as it was.

This wasn't like the movies. There was no team of heroes that would bravely step up to the challenge and miraculously save their planet from being conquered.

A sudden movement in front of him, however, rouses him from his morose thoughts. When he looks up, it is to find Keith having taken several steps back, his arms angled at the elbow as if readied to shield him.

Almost hastily, his skin bleeds back into purple.

“I apologize for my transgression, master,” he says, his voice frayed, “I have displeased you.”

Shiro frowns, confused as to what has just happened.

“Huh?” he says intelligently, somewhat whiplashed from the change in Keith's behavior, “What are you talking about?”

“I meant no disrespect by copying your family,” Keith says, falling back into the demeanor of a slave.

“Nonono,” Shiro objects, waving his hand but stopping immediately when he sees Keith flinch, “That's not- I wasn't upset about you, I was just remembering Earth and my family and-”

He takes a deep breath, centers himself.

“I'm just homesick,” he explains, “And it's nice seeing a human face. So... if you don't mind...”

He leaves the sentence open-ended. He does not want Keith to feel the need to change for him.

Yet understandably, Keith still seems reluctant.

“I'm not... I'm never going to hurt you,” Shiro adds. “Well,” he amends, the back of his hand still seeming to tingle from the impact with the side of Keith's face one week ago, “Not on purpose, at least.”

Another moment and then Keith gives a barely perceptible nod. This time, Shiro gets to watch as the boy's features slowly morph and re-shape themselves, his ears shrinking, his sharp incisors receding, until Keith looks fully human once more.

Shiro's chest seems to expand with something warm.

“Can all Galra do this?” he asks, curious once more.

Keith shakes his head, “I don't know of anyone else. And even if they were able, it would be considered shameful to deny your heritage.”

“You are a proud people,” Shiro notes.

“We are one that revels in uniformity.”

Yes, Shiro had noticed that already.

There were few differences between the Galra, at least among those on this ship. Some had thick, almost leathery reptilian skin. Others were covered in fur from head to toe. But apart from Keith, Shiro had never seen a Galra shorter than him, but other than that they all wore their uniforms and their weapons.

Idly, Shiro wonders whether the humans at the Garrison would seem similarly as interchangeable to an outsider. Hell, it wasn't like he himself hadn't been subjected to the same old spiel of 'sorry, all Asians just look the same to me'.

No, Keith looked different now alright, but there was still something decidedly Galra about him, the way he held himself, forcibly differential due to his lower status, but still with a haughty and defiant tilt to his nose.

Shiro allows himself to smile.

“It suits you,” he says and does not quite know whether he means Keith's spirit or his new face.

Keith gives a tiny smile in response and that, unsurprisingly, suits him, too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme tell you, when you are in a strange land, the value of good friends in unsurmountable.


	5. Chapter 5

After almost two months, Shiro is finally – _finally_ – allowed to resume his training.

The guard knowingly grins at him when he accompany him to the gym, once more mistaking his desperation for blood lust, and Shiro does not bother to correct them.

Keith follows after them, in the protection of Shiro's shadow.

“He any good?” the guard asks with an eyebrow wriggle, bumping his shoulder against Shiro's, made even more awkward by the height difference.

“Better than most,” Shiro says blandly, keeping his gaze ahead.

The guard lets out a low whistle and throws a glance back at Keith.

“You should've just done what Officer Rarrek wanted,” he says, and there is almost something like sympathy in his voice, “Would've saved you a whole lot of trouble.”

“Rarrek can go fuck himself,” Keith growls and Shiro nearly jerks in surprise, unused to hearing Keith speak in such open and obvious defiance.

The guard only barks out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I guess he can.”

Then they have reached the gym and the guard gives them a final nod.

“Don't overdo it,” he warns Shiro, “Those prosthetics are not easy to handle.”

“I'll figure it out,” Shiro knows, though the arm is still a foreign object to him, an intruder on his body. It's not the only part of him that has been tainted by the Galra but it is the most obvious.

The other prisoners must think so, too, because when Shiro enters the gym, they look over and immediately tense. Shiro tries to catch their gazes, give them greeting nods, but they just part in front of him, warily watching from the sidelines as he goes to find a spot for himself.

Shiro tells himself not to be offended. If they had seen his last fight, they might very well be afraid of him. And some of him, he knows, he might soon meet in the arena. It's better not to make friends of them, better to not etch their faces into his memory, better to have one less thing to regret.

For some reason, though, Shiro is not feeling quite as solitary as he would have expected, and it takes him a moment to figure out why that is. Then he turns around and finds Keith still guarding his back.

Out in public, the Galra is once more wearing his own skin, and the prisoners are watching him just as suspiciously, but Keith himself seems to shrug their cautious hatred off his shoulders, like raindrops on stainless steel.

Not for the first time Shiro notices how Keith holds himself like a finely crafted weapon, ready to cut, ready to lash out at any moment. There is a beauty to his motions, and a danger, too.

The Galra, after all, are warriors at heart.

“Hey,” Shiro says, a sudden idea forming in his head, and somehow he already knows that Keith will only make token objections, “Do you know how to fight?”

 

Keith, it turns out, is actually more than just a decent fighter. Shiro wonders whether it is blood, his spirit, or the fact that he has had to defend himself all his life.

But Keith is still a runt in many regards, was merely a cargo pilot before he got demoted even further, and Shiro has to wonder what that might mean for humanity's chances. Because how was Earth supposed to ward off all of Galra's military forces if even the human Champion had trouble dodging his slave's hot-headed attacks?

But therein already lies Keith's fault and Shiro's certain victory. Keith has daring and even a certain amount of skill; he has his superior Galra strength. What he lacks, however, is Shiro's foresight and levelheadedness. Shiro knows how to work out a tactic and to ration his power reserves.

Shiro fights with his eyes wide open while Keith is blinded by anger.

Not anger at Shiro, it seems, just anger in general, anger at the Galra, at the universe, at the unfairness of life. Keith fights because there is nothing left for him. But then again, that's just another thing they have in common.

“Patience,” Shiro cautions but then Keith is already throwing himself at him with a feral growl. Shiro sidesteps him, trips him up, grabs him by the shoulders and flings them over onto the ground, pressing down with the full weight of his body, because anything less Keith might easily wriggle out from.

Keith is hissing and spitting, and Shiro finds himself grateful that they had laid down the rules beforehand and agreed on mere wrestling for now because otherwise Keith would surely already have tried to bite him.

“Do you yield?” Shiro asks pointedly, though it does not quite have the effect he would like, considering he is grunting and rather out of breath.

Keith's bared teeth as answer enough, so Shiro just sighs to himself and continues his efforts to subdue him.

Eventually, however, Shiro notices something else. Namely that Keith's plain tunic has slipped up during their fight and is exposing even more bare skin than usual, not only making Shiro himself uncomfortable but also drawing the attention of some of the other prisoners around them.

The tunics aren't exactly very convenient for running around, even less so for fighting, and Shiro suspects that their sole purpose is to show off Keith's long slender legs. Shiro finds himself vaguely annoyed by the fact that, while he as a human has often been called ugly by the Galra, some of Earth's beauty standards and fixation on naked skin still existed here as well.

He huffs and finally lets go of Keith, pushing away and lifting his hands in a placating manner. Immediately, Keith scrambles to his feet, his hair a mess, his fists clenched, but at least his modesty is once more intact.

“Easy,” Shiro tells him, like one would a spooked animal, but Keith relaxes only marginally. Shiro really could see how that kid got demoted for not respecting authority figures.

“Aren't there any training clothes for you?” he asks and Keith looks caught off guard by the question.

“None that would fit me,” he replies grudgingly and his tone startles a small laugh out of Shiro.

“I could buy you some,” he offers because he wouldn't know what to spend his credits on anyway. He might as well let Keith profit from it.

But Keith just eyes him suspiciously.

“Why would you do that?” he demands.

Shiro shrugs. “I don't want you to catch a cold,” he replies flippantly and expects Keith to give him a deadpan stare. Instead, Keith seems confused.

“What?” Shiro asks, feeling a little self-conscious now, like he missed some part of their conversation.

“Are all humans... like you?” Keith asks.

Shiro blinks. “Like what?”

“Kind,” Keith says and the word sounds frail and foreign on his lips, as though he were not sure whether it is even the one he is looking for.

Keith, Shiro has learned quickly, has not known much kindness in his life. There are no scars on his body, not like the ones that adorn Shiro's, but he shies away from even the most innocuous of touches. The mere thought of Shiro simply offering to buy him clothes seems to completely throw him.

“God, no,” Shiro gives a bitter chuckle, “We're not all bad, I guess, but... we have wars and crimes and petty feelings. But we... persevere. We try to see the good in each other.”

It's an idealistic world view, he knows. It's easy to glorify humanity when compared to the war-mongering Galra, but reality is rarely so clean-cut. After all, Shiro has known his fare share of prejudice and envy.

“Galra destroy that which is different,” Keith says and for once he sounds somewhat wistful, somewhat vulnerable, and Shiro cannot help but wonder at that.

When Keith is in his natural form, his eyes are not completely yellow as most other Galras'. Instead he has dark pupils and violet irises, further estranging him from his brethren. So Shiro is curious, wants to ask about it, but knows that such questions would not go over well with Keith.

The boy constantly seems to be torn between wanting to defy the other Galra and trying to be like them. They had cast him out and he had reacted with spite, but at the same time there was a certain longing to be accepted by his kind. By anyone at all, really.

Keith is like a thistle, a prickly weed growing in the face of adversary. One day, Shiro hopes, he would live to thrive and blossom. For now, his thorns would have to do.

“Wanna go again?” Shiro asks and Keith's sharp little grin is answer enough.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting with next chapter, we are finally moving away from the 'slow' and towards the 'burn'. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

The fact that Shiro is being kept away from the other prisoners is slowly taking its toll. He'd never been close to any of them, hadn't quite dared to, not since Matt and Sam were taken away. Having friends in this environment was a liability Shiro could no longer afford. He had already sacrificed himself to save Matt. For once he had to be selfish.

But now he longs for the simple company he had when he was still stuck in a cell with other combatants. They had all been wary of each other, never quite knowing whether the next day they would be facing each other in the arena. But there was a reassurance in falling asleep while hearing other people breathe around you.

Now Shiro only has the static silence of his room, the constant subtle whirring of the ship which he usually manages to tune out but then at odd intervals grows terribly aware of until it seems like there is nothing else in his head.

All these weeks Shiro had wished for a decent meal and a comfortable bed, and now that he's got that it dawns to him that the one thing he truly craves is physical contact. Considering that, during the Kerberos mission and even in the Garrsion, affectionate touches hadn't exactly been part of the program, Shiro realizes with a heavy sinking in his stomach that he cannot properly recall the last time he has been hugged.

Probably when he left for the mission, he thinks. His peers and some of the cadets congratulating him, one-armed hard hugs and slaps on the back, hands messing up his hair, playful punches and _Lucky bastard_ laughed into his ear.

A year then, he thinks. It must have been over a year and the homesickness feels like an actual disease, eating at him from the inside, rotting his organs and curdling his blood. He could sob and scream with how much he wants to see the sun again.

Lethargically, he rolls over in bed, looking over to where Keith is sitting on the floor, haplessly stitching up one of the many tears in Shiro's training clothes. Shiro had insisted that he could do it himself but Keith had pointed out that he had been the one to land so many hits on Shiro, so he might as well make up for it. There had been a certain smugness in the words, a certain haughtiness, and Shiro hadn't had it in him to insist upon the matter.

“Hey,” he says now, his voice drowsy, waiting for Keith's gaze to flicker up. “What is Galra like?”

If Keith were in his natural form, his big ear would surely twitch in surprise. As it is, though, his human eyebrows merely lift a little.

“I don't know,” he shrugs at length, turning back to his work, “I've never been.”

Shiro stares, suddenly feeling a little more awake, “What do you mean?”

“The planet was overpopulated,” Keith explains, “That's why Zarkon started expanding the Empire.” He gives a wry grin, “A long time of opulence was followed by us quickly using up our resources. So many of us left.”

Shiro blinks, realizes he had never wasted much thought on why the Galra were doing what they were doing. Wonders whether there is more to it still and whether the lower ranks were just being fed a credible story.

“And you?” he asks, “Where did you grow up then?”

Another shrug, “I was born on this ship.”

Shiro's mouth falls open, no words coming out, so eventually Keith just continues.

“It's normal. Most of us never even get transferred to another station.”

“But... you said you were a pilot.”

“I ferried cargo from the bases to the ship,” Keith snorts, “I never even left the cockpit.”

A heavy feeling settles in Shiro's stomach when he realizes just what exactly that means. “So you've... you've never been planetside?”

Keith shakes his head, seeming very matter-of-fact about it, as though that were the least of his problems. “Frankly,” he muses, with only a hint of irony to his tone, “The most exciting thing that ever happened to me was when they told me I would become the alien Champion's slave.”

Shiro almost laughs, “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” Keith says and gives a slow blink, “I thought one of us would end up killing the other.”

Suddenly, Shiro's mouth is parchment-dry and it takes him a moment to breathe normally again.

“Do you still think that?” he asks haltingly and Keith seems to contemplate that for a long moment.

“No,” he says eventually, “Guess not.”

“The Champion's not so exciting after all, huh?”

“He is,” Keith says and his voice has dropped a little, along with his gaze, “Just different.”

Shiro had wanted exciting. He had wanted Galaxy Garrison and Kerberos. He had wanted the universe.

What he wants now is the luxury of what used to be commonplace. Wind in his hair. The smell of sunshine on earth after a short burst of rain. Apple pie and bubble baths and the many colors the sky may turn. Shiro wants touch to not mean hurt, movement to not equal fear. Shiro wants home and he is the farthest from Earth any human has ever been.

“Keith,” he begins, stops himself to chuckle awkwardly, “Would you... I don't know how to put this, but... would you lie down with me?”

A sudden peculiar stillness descents upon Keith's body, his fluid grace stilled to something crystalline, like the surface of a frozen river, with vicious currents hidden underneath.

Then he inclines his head, puts his work aside and rises to his feet, crossing the room with swift steps, lowering himself down onto the mattress.

Shiro, having expected more resistance, finds himself letting out a relieved sigh, his eyes slipping shut. The mere presence of another body so close to his, not quite relaxed but still non-threatening, has something in him unfurl where it had been tightly clenched before. Suddenly, the cabin, the ship, the future doesn't feel quite as constricting around him.

Next to him, Keith lies very still, his breath shallow.

In a gesture of comfort for both of them, Shiro reaches out his left hand and places it around Keith's wrist. The pulse underneath his thumb is flighty but familiar. Human. Shiro could die like this and feel some semblance of happiness.

For a few moments, they remain like this, neither moving, neither talking, and it is almost something peaceful. Finally, however, Keith speaks up.

“You will... have to instruct me,” he points out haltingly, his voice somewhat strangled.

“Instruct,” Shiro snorts, “You just have to lie there.”

A beat and then Keith gives a short jerky nod. “As you wish.”

The words make Shiro pause, make his instincts rear their Hydra heads. Because Keith is speaking like a slave again and there has to be a reason for it.

“Keith,” he says slowly, “What are you expecting to happen right now?”

There is a long terrible moment of silence.

“I do not know... how your species... procreates,” Keith forces out, “If there is anything I should-”

Shiro jolts upright so quickly that in response Keith rolls straight off the mattress, landing on the ground with a dull thud. He does not reappear, stays ducked away behind the bed frame.

A jumble of anger and anguish deafens Shiro's thoughts and he thinks he doesn't deserve Keith's suspicion, not when he had been trying so hard to earn his friendship, but then reason sneaks back around the corner, slithers soothing words into his brain, and he forces himself to listen.

He knows Keith has been punished for merely existing, knows he has never truly known family or friendship, knows he was made a slave for sticking up for himself because he had to, because no one else ever did.

Shiro ought to count himself lucky Keith has opened up to him at all, not blame him for not doing it more quickly or wholly, not when there is so about Shiro is still holding back about himself.

Maybe he is taking to long to come back to his senses but, before he can say anything to assuage Keith's fears, the boy is already crawling back onto the bed again, his pointy shoulders hunched up like jagged knives around his ears while his skin morphs uneasily from pale white to nervous purple.

“Should I... turn back?” he asks uncertainly, not looking Shiro in the eye, “The basic physiology is the same, but- if you'd rather have a Gal-”

“Keith, no,” Shiro barks out because, if Keith continues, he is surely going to throw up. This time, the boy flinches but stays put anyway, his blunt fingernails clawing into the bed sheets.

Shiro presses a palm to the spot on his own chest where his heart is beating a violent rhythm against its cage. He's grown too used to loud curses and angry shouts while fighting that it takes him considerable effort to soften his voice.

“Keith, listen to me,” he implores, “I will never, _never_ ask something like that of you. Just because they call you my slave doesn't mean you ever have to act like one around me. We are friends, okay?”

Because Shiro cannot stand that constant game of hot and cold that they have going on. He needs Keith to know that here, in the relatively safe space of his cabin, they can be open and honest with each other. That he is not a threat, no matter what kind of reputation seemed to linger in his shadows.

Keith chances a glance up, as though expecting a trap.

“I promise, I'm not gonna do anything,” Shiro says placatingly and, with a spontaneous idea striking him, he settles back onto the bed, lying on his side. “Here,” he invites, patting the space across from him, “We can just rest together. No touching, no talking, if you don't want to. Just... company.”

Once more Keith looks like he thinks the Champion must be clinically insane or that he must have taken one too many hits in the arena. But then, against all odds, he tentatively lowers himself down onto the mattress, as though he would not at all be surprised if the pillows were out to get him, too.

“There,” Shiro says around a smile, “Is that so bad?”

“It's in the middle of the day,” Keith points out, “Why are we resting?”

“It's not really resting, I guess,” Shiro admits, “The lying about just makes me more sleepy, actually.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because the alternative is to train and I've already done that today,” Shiro replies, “Overdoing it won't do any good.”

Keith frowns, “If you do not train, you will get killed. Then you can rest even more.”

Shiro smirks wryly, “Guess you're right. What do you... what did you use to do when you were bored?”

“Train,” Keith says, “Fight.”

“Obviously,” Shiro sighs and it blows the fringe from his face.

Something else occurs to him then and he wonders how to phrase the question. Whether he should ask in the first place.

Because he had noticed that Keith is more belligerent than the average Galra, he understands that he is some sort of social outcast, but that still doesn't offer up an explanation for the most crucial conundrum.

“Keith,” he tries, his brow furrowing, “They said you defied a superior.”

“... Yes.”

“In what manner?”

Keith swallows and Shiro doesn't press, calmly waiting for him to either reply or refuse. Finally, however, Keith relents.

“He... wanted me...,” he begins and then trails off.

Shiro's frown deepens, “Wanted you to what?”

“He wanted _me_ ,” Keith repeats with more emphasis, more anger, “I didn't want him. So I rejected him and, when he didn't back down, I attacked him.”

Shiro stares, trying to make sense of the words, of how such injustice could have befallen the boy. “And you were enslaved for that?”

Keith gives a shrug, as though trying to appear unaffected, but it's a feeble gesture.

“What the guards say is true,” he points out, “I was born a disgrace to my family. I had no right to turn down the advances of someone who is superior to me. They said I ought to have been grateful.”

“Your _family_ said that?”

“Everyone said that,” Keith spits and there's the fury now, comforting in its familiarity, “If I had accepted him, I could have bettered my standing, gotten a promotion. That bag of shit claimed he could make me a real pilot, even when I damn well know he can't.”

“So instead he demoted you.”

For a moment, Keith looks pensive.

“I was expecting severe punishment,” he admits, “But... not to that degree. Afterwards he said... he said that in the end, I would still end up getting fucked.”

Shiro knows of the atrocities that happen on earth every day, things he cannot even fathom with how sheltered he had been growing up. He knows of curt columns in the newspaper, reporting cases of all kinds of abuse, of the occasional sensational headline making the front page whenever something especially despicable happens. He knows the clinical paragraphs in the sexual harassment prevention training all cadets have to undergo, the occasional friend complaining about someone getting too close for comfort.

He does not know which words would suffice in soothing some of Keith's pain.

So he opens his mouth and then closes his again.

“Will you get punished if you stay the night?” he asks finally.

“No,” Keith says, “That was my purpose anyway.”

To serve the Champion day and night, whatever his desires are. But Shiro forces himself not to dwell on that cruel truth.

No talking, he had said and then done it anyway. No touching, and yet he is reaching across the blanket and stroking a single finger across the back of Keith's hand.

This time, Keith's eyes are open, focused and fearless.

“Then stay,” Shiro offers and Keith nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laying on the angst with this one, but I guess that's what you're here for anyway.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, I'm sorry I couldn't make the update last week. This chapter was giving me hell and I think that shows, but I hope I'll make up for it with the content. ^^'

For the first time in too long, Shiro wakes up and feels truly well rested.

When he opens his eyes, he finds Keith's dark eyes across from him.

“Do all humans sleep so much?” is the first thing he asks and so the first thing Shiro does it smile.

“Not necessarily,” he says, “But it is one of our favorite pastimes. Did you sleep well?”

“No,” Keith admits bluntly, “I'm not used to another person moving around so much.”

“Oh,” Shiro's smile slips a little, “Did I have another nightmare?”

Keith shakes his head, “You were talking about someone named Broccoli.”

A chuckle hitches out of Shiro's throat. “No, that's- that's a vegetable, actually,” he corrects, “Something to eat.”

“Something you like?”

“I guess?” Shiro muses. He's never held a real fondness or antipathy for broccoli, certainly not enough to dream about it. But dreams were strange like that.

“Speaking of food,” he says, pushing himself up and kicking the blanket off, “How about we get a snack and then hit the training deck?”

“Fine by me,” Keith shrugs and it's so much better than a complacent 'whatever you wish'.

So they have a light breakfast together and Shiro slips into his training clothes that are starting to look a little worse for the wear, thanks to Keith's relentless attacks whenever they are sparring.

Before they actually leave the room, however, Shiro stops in his tracks and meaningfully glances back at Keith.

“Don't you want to change back?” he asks, because Keith still looks like a human and he has never let himself be seen like that by his fellow Galra.

“No,” Keith says simply and leaves it at that. Shiro feels strangely elevated.

The easy mood of the early morning cannot last long, of course. It never does upon this blasted ship.

 

They spar and it is good, like always. Shiro does not exactly enjoy fighting, but when here with Keith he can appreciate the thrill that comes without the fear of the arena.

Everything is very focused when he can hear little but the blood rushing in his veins, the steady rhythm of his heart, the concentration on every breath he takes. The universe, the ship, the training deck narrows down to the couple of square meters that he and Keith have set aside as their own, where they dance and dash out of each other's reach.

In the arena, Shiro is an evader, smaller than most of his opponents if not necessarily much faster, ducking away from most attacks and praying that his stamina, his stubbornness, his strength will carry him through the rest of the fight.

With Keith, most of these attacks do not work. The two of them are evenly matched when it comes to mere force, but Keith is scarily quick and agile. Shiro deems himself quite lucky that the Galra never sent any of their own into the arena.

Right now, however, he finds himself marveling at the fact that, even in his human guise, Keith seems to maintain all of his ferocity. Maybe he does not look quite as fierce when he is baring blunt teeth instead of fangs, but his eyes flash with each attack.

Keith is like a diamond in the rough, gleaming red coal and a core so tough you could cut your teeth on it. The Galra must be ignorant to have missed that.

But Shiro really should know better than to wax poetics on the battle field. One moment he is watching Keith move, and then next is his already tilting backwards, the ceiling entering his field of vision before he even quite registers what happens, but then follows the fall, the thump, and Shiro feels his butt protest at the impact. A second later, the breath is knocked out of him a second time when Keith roughly plants a foot on his chest and pushes him down, accompanied by his blunt blade pressing against Shiro's neck.

Shiro opens his mouth to yield and then surprises himself by the sound that come out instead.

Because Shiro cannot help but laugh out loud, making several heads turn into their direction. Yet he doesn't care, just keeps laughing.

Keith stares at him. “If this were the arena,” he points out and presses his weapon a little harder, a little closer, “You'd be dead now.”

“I know,” Shiro chuckles, “But that was quite a spectacular fall. I gotta go in style.”

There is an odd flicker in Keith's eyes and then he just throws his weapon away, throws himself onto Shiro and knocks him down, grabbing him by the collar, shaking him.

“You are Champion,” he growls dangerously, “You are a fighter, a survivor. Do not speak of death so carelessy.”

“Keith,” Shiro says, caught of guard and winding his fingers around Keith's wrists to stop him and hold him in place at the same time, “It was a joke.”

“Dying is no joke,” Keith spits, “Die once and the only ones who get to laugh are _them_. You said you do not fight for honor – do not fight for amusement either.”

“Alright,” Shiro says calmly, soothingly, “Alright, Keith.”

In that moment, the air on the training deck changes. All around them, prisoners are setting aside their weapons and standing to attention.

Keith lifts his head and glances around before he suddenly freezes, his eyes widening. Then he quickly scrambles to his feet.

It's not completely unknown procedure. Sometimes, a higher-ranked Galra will drop by and the prisoners are not allowed to keep a hold of their weapons, except when told otherwise. Sometimes, the Galra wanted to see a certain captive fight in order to know whether or not to bet on them. Sometimes they demanded to watch a sparring match for their private amusement. And sometimes, very rarely, the Galra was thirsting for a fight himself, picking out a victim who would not be allowed to properly fight back anyway.

Shiro had never once been picked, but he rolls over and up, calmly comes to stand beside Keith, only to find that the Galra officer is casually strolling right toward them.

“Rarrek,” Keith curses under his breath and, just like that, reality snaps itself into place.

Rarrek, Shiro recalls. One of the guards had mentioned Keith had defied someone named Rarrek.

That meant that this was the officer who had looked at Keith and wanted him. Had wanted him and not taken no for an answer. Had not taken no for an answer and turned out to be a sore loser. A sore loser who still somehow managed to win the fight. And it had cost Keith his dignity and his freedom.

For the first time in a long time, Shiro feels honest hatred thrive in him. In the arena, everything is a red frenzy, all over the place and aimless, token ire for the cheering Galra, necessary rage to fight against his opponents with whom he actually has no quarrel with. In his cell, on the other hand, everything is dulled by his apathy.

This, however. This is cold and clean-cut hatred, like the curve of a fine blade. This true blood lust is what Shiro ought to be called Champion for.

When Rarrek closes in on them, he does not speak, instead slowly beginning to circle around them, making a game of how they have to stand to attention while he watches them, a vulture singling out which carcass to chose from. Shiro hoped he'd choke on it.

The Galra is not military, he notes, having long since learned to distinguish between the different uniforms and ranks. This one is merely a lower officer, an overseer for the shipments and cargo. In the grand scheme of things, he was nothing. But he would have been Keith's superior and he had caused his downfall.

And Shiro wants to defend Keith, wants to speak up, wants to fight. But this is still a Galra officer. It was entirely possible that he could have them both killed within the blink of an eye.

So Shiro can do nothing but stall his tongue and watch.

“Kithnarak,” Rarrek says and the name sounds like the slither of a snake on his tongue, “It's good to see you again.”

And he drags his floodlight gaze along Keith's naked skin.

“Although,” he amends, open distaste coating his words, “I much preferred you when before you chose to betray your kin. Quite shameful to deny your heritage.”

Keith face is a pale blank mask, no emotion displayed, his eyes shuttered like the windows in an abandoned house. And it must irk Rarrek to no end that he cannot get a rise out of him. So he changes course.

“I hear the Champion has finally made use of you,” he taunts, gaze fleetingly passing over Shiro, “Did he not dare to touch a true child of Galra? Do you disgust him? Does he disgust you?”

And he leans in close, breathing into Keith's human ear, “Or are you enjoying your lot as an inferior creature's whore?”

Shiro had not considered the fact that Keith not returning to the slave quarters last night would have been constructed as him really taking Keith to his bed. Because obviously, sex could only happen at night, and if someone spent the night with you there could be no other reason but sex.

“Tell me, Kithnarak,” Rarrek demands, “How does the alien fuck?”

“Better than you could ever hope to,” Keith claims scathingly and Shiro almost chokes on his spit.

Rarrek rears back at the sudden sign of insolence but he quickly catches himself.

“Is that so?” he drawls, curious, an arrogant tilt to his chin, “Then you better enjoy it while it lasts.”

Keith narrows his eyes at him but does not give him the pleasure of asking him what that is supposed to mean. But of course Rarrek indulges him anyway.

“It's a pity, really,” he muses aloud, “Soon enough he'll be put back into the arena and he cannot remain Champion forever. And who knows whom you'll belong to then.”

It's not an empty threat but a very real possibility, and all three of them know it.

Keith tries to unflinchingly hold Rarrek's gaze, but then his eyes flicker, to Shiro, to the floor, to that place inside him that has been hurt too deeply. And that is all the concession Rarrek needs.

“Ah,” he purrs, the sound oozing from his lips, “Could it be that our little misfit has grown fond of his new master? But, Kithnarak, shouldn't you know better by now? You hold no meaning to him apart from how well you-”

Rarrek breaks off. At first, it doesn't even register to Shiro, and when it does he cannot pinpoint the reason. The noise in his head is too loud, just like it always is in the arena, those hazy moments before he goes in for the kill, his careful strategies from before thrown in the wind. Maybe it must show on his face, maybe he is baring his teeth like a rabid dog, but Rarrek is staring at him with wide eyes.

Slowly, the Galra begins to back away, swallowing visibly.

“How dare you-,” he chokes out, “Such insubordination, you filthy-”

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, “Your arm.”

Shiro glances down at himself. His arm, his hateful Galra prosthetic, is still by his side, the fist clenched tightly to contain his anger. But the metal itself is glowing, cold and purple, the source of it indistinguishable.

It seems to be thrumming mildly, faint vibrations that tickle along the seams of where it is fused to Shiro's skin, and that energy, that buzz makes him feel as though he could move mountains. Or punch Rarrek in the face.

When he looks back up, however, the Galra has already disappeared from the training deck.

All around them, people are relaxing, but only vaguely. They pick up their weapons again, return to their training, but Shiro can feel them watching him from the corners of their eyes.

They had learned how to respect the Champion long before. Now they know to fear him.

The defeat that comes along with that realization is finally what drains the rage from Shiro's limbs. His shoulders slump and his head lowers.

“Let's just go back to my cell,” he tells Keith and together they drudge from the deck, their blades abandoned.

By the time, the door closes behind them, Shiro can breathe easy again. He only feels tired now, hollowed out to his bone marrow.

In his stead, it is Keith who is shaking with suppressed anger, and for good reason, too. Meeting Rarrek had been a cruel reminder for the both of them and the soft tranquility they had established just the night before seems irreversibly shattered. He's still keeping it all in, though, no curses, no recklessly swung fists, and Shiro has to wonder how long the boy had to make himself smaller than he already was.

“Keith,” he says quietly, “It's okay to be upset.”

Keith's eyes zap toward him, hurt and helpless, and he has never looked more human.

“I- I keep thinking that it has to stop at some point,” he stammers, “That they'll grow bored and just leave me alone. But they never do. They just- they just make it worse.”

And which of them has lost the most – Shiro whose freedom and autonomy was taken, or Keith who never really had anything like that to begin with?

“Keith,” Shiro says and his voice feels strange in his hollow mouth, not knowing where the impulse comes from, “Keith, may I kiss you?”

Keith looks at him, his eyes blank.

“Kiss?” he asks without understanding. Maybe the Galra do not kiss. Maybe they have no need for tenderness.

“It's... a gesture of affection,” Shiro tries to explain, though he finds himself at a loss as to what words adequately describe a heart-felt kiss, “Some say that it originated from feeding one's young.”

Keith frowns but there is a delicacy that has crept into his gaze at the mere mention of 'affection'.

“How... how does it work?” he asks, almost shyly.

“You, um, press your mouths together,” Shiro says and could slap himself for how idiotic that sounds.

At once, Keith's lips purse. “That doesn't sound very nice.”

“No, that- If done right it's actually... pretty exciting.”

“Exciting?” Keith echoes and then his eyes drop down to Shiro mouth, curious despite himself.

“Yeah,” Shiro says breathlessly, “So... may I?”

Keith gives a non-committal shrug, but at the same time his body seems to be gravitating towards Shiro.

“Whatever,” he says and for someone like him it's light-years away from an outright no.

So Shiro gives himself a push and carefully grasps him by the shoulders, leaving him ample time to duck away if he chooses. But for once, Keith stays put, no flinching, no scowling, just wide and wondering eyes while Shiro's own cannot help but slide shut, a split second before the two of them finally touch.

Keith's lips feel human, warm and dry. They are also a little too flat and narrow like this because he obviously has no idea what he should be doing.

“You have to... move into it,” Shiro breathes against him, “Like I'm doing.”

Keith makes a small annoyed noise like he would have liked to know that before this whole thing was sprung on him, but then he is doing it and suddenly his lips are all soft, and his body seems to be too, and something inside of Shiro melts like iron at the heart of a star.

There is no rage then, no urgency, no outside world even. They are two satellites, touching, trembling, traveling in the orbit of something much greater than themselves.

Keith sighs into his mouth and Shiro dares to dream of tomorrow.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this whole shitty thing nees a seriuos editing because it feels like a limp leaf of lettuce, I am vaguely planning the sequel which will be called “keeping the stars apart” and which will cover the events of the first season.  
> But I am still undecided whether to continue from Shiro's POV or switch to Keith, to get some insight on him and all his angst. Thoughts?


	8. Chapter 8

A week passes and things are different in the way night falls. Gradually and then all of a sudden.

Retrospectively, Shiro does not quite know why he kissed Keith. It was loneliness and solace and a desperate attempt to bridge that distance between them, that chasm that separated them, Human and Galra, master and slave.

Keith himself seems to have taken Shiro's word at face value, accepting the simple explanation of how kissing imitates feeding. The potential romantic or sexual implication is lost on him.

It's better that way. Shiro had promised to never touch him in such a manner. Backpedaling now, admitting that there was more to it, would inevitably read as betrayal to Keith.

And it's not like friends can't kiss. Friends can cuddle. Friends can be so lonely and touch-starved that their single focus becomes that patch of warmth against the exposed skin of their arm where someone is tentatively leaning in, as though wordlessly asking for permission.

When they kiss now it's chaste and close-mouthed, little more than a prolonged touch. Keith keeps his hands to himself, fingers of the left circling his right wrist, as though to keep himself at bay.

It's curious how they are always carefully balancing their extremes. Tentative touches when they are alone, ruthless sparring when they are on the training deck together.

Since their encounter with Rarrek, Shiro has grown more curious about his cybernetic arm. He had know that it was meant to help him fight in the future, but he had had no idea that it might be considered a weapon in its own right.

In the past weeks, Shiro's disgust of the foreign appendix had slowly quieted down. It's still not a part of him, but it's better than having nothing at all. So he might as well make the most of it.

Keith, on the other hand, is more circumspect.

“Druid magic,” he mutters with narrowed eyes and a small shudder, “It cannot be trusted.”

Magic, he says though all Shiro feels is metal.

They spar like this, but both of them more careful than before. Shiro because he has no idea just what the arm might be able to do. Keith because he has more vivid suspicions.

It takes Shiro a couple of days to figure out just how to trigger the purple glow and the thrumming of energy that comes with it. There is a place within him that is cold and hard and jaded. A part of him that is Galra, spitefully, vindictively. When that core breaks, when it bursts and shoots geysers of violence into the rest of his being, then the arm come to life.

It does not obey precisely, but it also does act on its own either. The arm is governed and something about that thought makes Shiro very much afraid.

He doesn't let it show, though, barely even admits it to himself. The one thing he is in control on this ship is himself. And that must never change.

So he concentrates on taming the beast, slowly but surely getting a hang of how to activate the arm, knowing that he has no other choice for more than just one reason.

He still grows tired more easily than before his injury, but soon that will pass. As soon as he has been deemed fully recovered, he will be put back into the arena. And who knows what he might lose next time? Another arm or maybe just his humanity?

A strike of irony, really, that while Keith steadily grows more at ease with what it means to be human, Shiro is worried about forgetting the same.

 

That night, when Keith reappears with dinner he seems somewhat more subdued, but that is nothing unusual, considering that prolonged interaction with fellow slaves and servants often leaves him somewhat terse. They eat together, not bothering with idle small-talk, and when Shiro migrates to the bed, Keith follows him without question.

Unexpectedly, Shiro barely has to lift his arm for Keith to dive under it and tentatively snuggle close.

Shiro blinks, surprised by the cuddly display, but he is careful not to remark upon it for fear of Keith retreating again. Instead he just smiles to himself, hoping that Keith is finally warming up to the idea of initiating physical contact himself. When Shiro does it, Keith generally starts out somewhat prickly, sitting rigid and cold, until he eventually melts into Shiro's side as though his body acted of its own volition.

“Say-,” Shiro begins, yet he doesn't get to finish because as soon as he turns his head to the side, Keith is already craning his neck and kissing him full on the lips.

A surprised noise escapes Shiro, but it quickly turns into a chuckle because Keith seems unusually eager.

“Keith,” he laughs against the boy's lips, before pulling back slightly, “What's up?”

There is a strange look in Keith's eyes that Shiro cannot quite pinpoint, there and gone again.

“Have you ever heard of Altea?” he asks, his mouth already on Shiro's once more.

“No?” Shiro blinks at the random question, squinting on the proximity of Keith's face, “What is it?”

“Hm,” Keith hums and the pulse of it vibrates through their touch “Voltron, maybe?”

Shiro lets out a snort, “Sounds like some kind of old kiddie cartoon.”

“So you know it?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Shiro sits up a little straighter, putting a hand on Keith's shoulder to keep him in place, “What's with the sudden questions?” he asks, “Why are you so curious about this?”

“It's nothing,” Keith shrugs, rather unconvincingly, “I was just wondering.”

“Is this something important?”

“No,” Keith gives a vague shake of his head, “No, I guess not.”

And then he tries to dive forward again, but Shiro leans out of his reach.

“Hey,” he says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Keith's nose scrunches up but then he is already blowing a breath. “Just forget it, Shiro,” he insists and practically climbs into Shiro's lap.

Shiro lets it happen, extraordinarily pleased by the use of his first name. It's still rare, the far and few inbetween, but it's a small step and they are moving forward, together.

The kisses turn a little deeper, a little wetter, a little more than what they usually do, and Shiro has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from actually getting excited about this. Just friends, he reminds himself. This is safe for Keith, for the both of them.

So he slowly lets it putter off, the intervals between kisses growing longer, their depth shallower, until eventually Keith is just kind of resting against him, half-cradled in his arms, when just a few weeks ago he would have shied away from Shiro merely looking at him.

On this ship, in this universe, each other is all they have. It's their only hope.

Boldly, Shiro makes a decision.

“Keith,” he whispers into his ear, because he does not know whether the cabin might be bugged, “Keith, I want to escape.”

In his arms, Keith stiffens. “What?”

“Zarkon might well be planning to conquer my home planet,” he knows, “I cannot let that happen.”

He had been contemplating it for a long time now, since his first fight in the arena. Now, with Keith's aid, he might actually stand a chance.

“Will you help me?” he asks, holding his breath.

It's a lot to ask for, though. Possibly too much, and for a long moment, Keith is silent. Then he lifts his head.

“There... might be a way,” he admits, reluctant, “But it's dangerous.”

“For you or for me?”

“For both of us.”

Shiro hesitates. He'd made up his mind a long time ago. He'd either die in the arena or on his attempt to escape. The choice is easily made. But he does not wish to drag Keith down with him.

“It's a risk I have to take,” he says, “But if you are-”

“No,” Keith shakes his head, “It's not like I have much to lose.”

“Your life.”

“Much of a life this is,” Keith huffs, “I might as well use this chance to fuck them over.”

At that, Shiro cannot help but laugh. Trust Keith to turn this into yet another exercise of spite.

“So, what's your plan?” Keith asks.

“I don't yet have a plan, per se,” Shiro hedges. After all, planning would be easier together. And Keith must know this ship like no prisoner could ever hope to.

But Keith just gives a confident smirk.

“Leave it to me,” he says and Shiro has no reason to doubt him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter, so I'm sorry for the long wait and the mostly filler content. I promise, next week's chapter is almost done and will be very painful for everyone involved. You have been warned.
> 
> Also, I have an extremely filthy little thing planned for Sheithweek, so be prepared for that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for elements of torture in this chapter!

It might well be in the middle of the night – or at least the middle of Shiro's sleep cycle – when he is rudely awakened by his door swishing open and a group of four Galra marching into the cabin, the harsh overhead light flickering on and casting angled, off-kilter shadows everywhere as soon as Shiro's eyes snap open.

“No,” Keith whispers beside him and he sounds devastated but not surprised while Shiro flounders for a moment, jerks upright in bed.

“Wha-” he protests but then one of the guards already has him by the wrist, pulling him off the mattress. Shiro stumbles, catches himself, but is still yanked backward, a harsh tug that jars his left shoulder.

“You,” another guard in front of him growls, “Stop resisting.”

“I'm not-,” Shiro claims, yet a shove against his back has him shut up, taking an unsteady step forward.

“Leave him alone,” Keith's voice pipes up from behind, but he is already being apprehended as well.

“Shut your mouth, slave,” one Galra snarls, grabbing both of Keith's wrists to keep him in place, but Keith just starts kicking at him, biting, twisting in the iron hold.

“It's okay, Keith,” Shiro tells him, even though he knows it's not. This has never happened before. It's not standard procedure. Since he became Champion, he's never even been treated all that roughly.

He glances around, for clues or for weapons, he doesn't even know. Briefly, he contemplates using his cybernetic arm, but the idea is futile. There are thousands of Galra upon this ship. No matter how many of them he took down, they would subdue him eventually.

So for now, he decides to keep a cool head. For now, he decides to wait.

Another push to his back and this time he obeys, quietly following the guards out of cabin and down the hallway. In the background, there is still the sound of Keith fighting back. Shiro just hopes he won't be punished too badly.

He is being led down the corridor and then into an elevator that takes them up to level one. Shiro purses his lips. Level one is where the highest-ranked Galra worked and resided. Level one meant danger.

He doesn't bother asking any questions. Most likely, the guards will not know, and even if they did they would not answer. Not to mention, he thinks wryly, that he would probably find out soon enough why they were apprehending him like this.

He knows his sleeping schedule doesn't quite match that of the Galra because they required much less than he does. But he still suspects that them practically waking him in the middle of the night is more than just coincidence. It's psychological warfare. Catch him unawares and unsettle him.

He wonders what else they will do.

Finally, they reach their destination, a non-descriptive room a little away from the general bustling of the upmost level. There's nothing to it, really, nothing incriminating or intimidating.

Well, Shiro amends. There is the tall, armored Galra standing in the middle of the room, proud and forbidding. A commander, and a high-ranking one, and now Shiro can feel the fear creep up in him.

“Champion,” the Galra inclines his head at him in a mocking display of respect, “My name is Sendak.”

“Not overly pleased to meet you, Sendak,” Shiro counters wryly, watching as a smirk flickers across the Galra's face.

“Attitude,” he says lightly, “We'll rid you of that soon enough. Do you know why you were brought before me today?”

Silently, Shiro shakes his head, refusing to answer. He has a suspicion though, a dreadful dreadful suspicion. And he hates it, hates himself for the thought, but his first instinct is that they must have found out about his plans for escape. That Keith must have sold him out.

Why else would they drag him here, mere days after he had confided in Keith about his desperate plans. Why else would they no longer treat him as their champion?

Keith hates the Galra, he tries to tell himself. Keith does not hate him. But could Shiro blame Keith for trying to barter for favors with his superior, to buy himself his freedom with this secret? Shouldn't Shiro have expected something like this? Hadn't he been too naive to hope that maybe he had made a friend on this blasted ship, and a Galra to boot?

“Let's get straight to the point then,” Sendak decides, “What do you know of Altea?”

At that, Shiro startles. “What?”

“The planet of Altea,” Sendak clarifies, “The castle of lions.”

“Lions?” Shiro echoes, “What lions?”

“Are you in contact with the Altean princess?” Sendak continues, paying him no heed, “Are you sworn to King Alfor?”

“I- no, I'm an American citizen,” Shiro blinks, “We have a president who-”

“Ah, your home planet, yes?” The glint in Sendak's eye sharpens, “Now we're getting somewhere. Where is Voltron?”

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Shiro insists, “I've never heard of those things before.”

He has, though. Because Keith had asked him those same questions just a few days ago, and he hadn't known then, why would they expect him to know now? What are they talking about and why is it so important to them?

“Voltron,” Sendak says in a cruel whisper, leaning closer, “A weapon of mass destruction. Hidden away in the depths of the universe by the late King Alfor of Altea. Quite formidable if used correctly.”

It takes Shiro a moment to parse through all of that, that talk of kings and lions and things that sound like terrible fairy tales. Then he smirks.

“You are afraid of it,” he realizes, canting his chin up, “Zarkon is afraid of it.”

There is no flicker of emotion on Sendak's face but when he turns away he waves a dismissive hand.

“I told you you'd be regret that attitude,” he says. And it's not an empty threat.

 

They torture him. For hours, possibly. It's hard to tell. Time blurs into an incessant mass of pain, a mess of agony. It's like his surgery all over again, but pointed and deliberate. They don't maim him, barely even scar him. Maybe he still is their champion. Maybe they are merely good at their craft.

Yet Shiro does not yield. And even if he did, he still would no be able to offer them answers.

Through the haze, he understands now that they had used Keith to question him about this, and when they realized that that wasn't enough they had decided to bring out the big guns.

Turns out that there are bigger guns still.

“Feel like talking now?” Sendak asks him, almost casually.

“I don't know anything,” Shiro gasps, “I don't-”

“Very well,” Sendak says and then walks over to the wall to speak into the control palette, “Bring in the slave.”

No. They can't. They just cannot.

Shiro struggles against his restraints but it's just as futile as before. He could take the pain and the humiliation, but he could not watch someone dear to him suffer so.

The door opens and, from the corner of his eye, Shiro can see how Rarrek of all people is dragging a struggling Keith into the room.

“Fuck you!” Keith screeches and it's like all of the pent-up fury is finally breaking lose, his skin surely bruising underneath Rarrek's punishing hold, “You stupid, filthy bastards, let me go, you-”

“If anyone here is a bastard, it is you,” Rarrek tells him pointedly, “As if being a misfit wasn't already enough of a disgrace, you now parade around wearing someone else's skin. You are a traitor to your own blood.”

“You made me his slave,” Keith hisses, “Don't act like it was my idea.”

“Perhaps,” Rarrek agrees, “But you have taken quite a shining to him, isn't that right? And he to you, I should think.”

Across the room, Shiro catches Keith's gaze, desperate and cornered.

“To make a lover out of a slave and an enemy,” Sendak smirks, “If the rest of your species is quite so foolish, then it conquering your planet should proof to be no challenge at all.”

By this point, Shiro not enough strength left to do anything but glare, but his stomach his roiling. So far, it had been little more than a suspicion that Zarkon would eventually turn towards Earth, but now he has confirmation. And he doesn't know what to do about it.

“Now,” Sendak says plainly, “Let's try this again. Where is Voltron.”

“There is no such thing as Voltron on Earth,” Shiro swears, “Humanity doesn't even know other developed life forms exist on other planet. What else do you what me to say?”

“Call it a hunch,” Sendak bares his sharp teeth, “But Haggar says you will be an integral part of our plans, and for once I am inclined to agree with her.”

He draws himself up to his full height, towering high above Shiro.

“And now, Champion,” he says, “Watch.”

Shiro doesn't obey, of course, cannot obey, but his torturers wrangle him upwards, wrestle talons into the fringe of his hair to force his head up.

“Rarrek,” Sendak says, turning towards the officer, “I believe it's appropriate to let you do the honor.”

Rarrek grins and Keith flips. He's fighting again, getting in some good kicks, an elbow jabbed into Rarrek's gut, but then another guard is already upon him as well, keeping him still.

“Thank you, sir,” Rarrek tells Sendak, looking quite smug as he sends Keith a derisive look before accepting a small slender device that is handed to him by one of the torturers. It almost looks like a remote control and, when Rarrek points the thing at Keith, Shiro realizes that it must be.

Keith's is no longer fighting, just fearfully staring at the thing, his pupils like pinpricks in his purple eyes. His breath comes in hitches, short and aborted, and Shiro almost thinks he can see the boy's pulse jump along the line of his neck, terrible anticipation.

Shiro had never once seen anyone look quite so afraid, not even in the arena, not even in his own reflection.

Rarrek's finger slips along the device almost tenderly, sensually pressing a button.

Keith screams, just for a second. Then his throat closes up, his entire body locks up and he is seizing. The guard has let go off him, lets him fall like this, and Keith crashes, sideways, his eyes rolling back in his skull.

Thunder storms through Shiro's vein, reverberates through his head, echoes hollowly, but he can only watch as Keith writhes on the floor, agony etched on every fiber of his being.

Finally, Shiro finds his voice again.

“No, stop it!” he shouts, hoarse and hurting, “What are you doing to him?!”

“A microchip embedded in his neck,” Sendak tells him casually, “A rather useful device, you'll find, and so discrete. Keeps slaves and prisoners in check. We never needed one for you, of course.”

No, Shiro had always fought in the arena, just as they had wanted him to. Survival had been a strong enough motivator.

“He's got nothing to do with this!” Shiro tries, “Just let him go.”

“It's in your hands,” Sendak point out, “Just tell me what I want to hear.”

“I don't know anything!” Shiro can barely think over the sight of Keith being tortured like this, “How am I supposed to-”

“So would would let him die, then?” Sendak asks, “Galra are hardier than your lot, but if this continues his heart might just stop in his chest.”

“Then stop, goddammit!” Shiro hollers helplessly, “Take me, kill me, I don't fucking care-”

“Now, now,” Sendak chuckles, “That just won't do. We still have plans for you.”

This, Shiro realizes, is something he cannot win. It's not something he can fight his way out of, nothing he can just endure. Not when someone else is involved. It's like Matt all over again, only worse, because this time Shiro has to throw something other than himself to the wolf.

Keith's body is contorting and twisting dangerously, saliva running down his chin in rivulets, while Rarrek only observes his humiliation in mild interest.

“It's hidden on Earth,” Shiro whispers and immediately Sendak's ears perk up.

“Ah?”

“I don't... I don't know where exactly,” he claims, “Only that... we don't even know how to use it. We are not a threat. We just...”

He doesn't know which lies to tell without Sendak catching noticing that he is just grasping at straws. The Galra seem to be under the impression that, as part of a space program, Shiro must have been given information that doesn't even exist.

The smile Sendak would almost be benevolent if it weren't for the dangerous edge in it.

“As expected of our champion,” he praises and then snaps his fingers at Rarrek. Immediately, the other Galra lowers the remote control, cutting off the flow of electricity.

Finally, Keith relaxes, but even that is too abrupt, too violent. His fingers unfurl, twitching uncontrollably.

“Shiro,” he whimpers, curled up on himself, but then Shiro is already being taken away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly not too happy with this.  
> This entire stories needs serious editing, smoothing out wrinkles and filling things in. I feel like I am primarily navigating potential plotholes, the ones in regards to canon and those I need to consider for the sequel. I really need to start a series rewatch and then go through this again. :/


	10. Chapter 10

For two days after he is thrown back into his room, Shiro sees neither hair nor hide of Keith.

The guards won't tell him anything and after his own torture session he is not ready to resume his training, so all he can do is bite his nails bloody in stomach-turning worry.

Then, finally, the door slides open and, instead of some other meek and subservient attendant, Keith steps into the cabin, holding a tray with dinner.

Shiro starts upright, nearly falling from the mattress and to his knees.

“Keith,” he breathes.

Keith's eyes are on the floor as he steps over and carefully deposits the tray onto the table.

“Master,” he says and takes a respectful step back.

No. Nonononono. Their weeks of of slowly climbing uphill and reaching the summit together could not have been destroyed within just a couple of cruel minutes. It cannot all have been in vain.

“Please,” he says and even he can hear how devastated he sounds.

Keith's shoulders draw up, pinch together. His hands are grasping each other, awkwardly tangled in front of his body.

“Shiro,” he relents quietly and Shiro's heart tentatively stitches itself back together.

“Are you- are you alright?” he asks, wanting to get closer to Keith to make sure, but also fearing that the move might not be appreciated.

Keith's lips purse.

“I've had worse,” is all he says, and Shiro does not dare think about the _training_ he must have had to endure when he was made into a slave.

“Would you... would you sit with me?” he asks, watching as Keith hesitates for just a moment. Then the boy inclines his head and does as requested.

Shiro swallows, wondering what to say, how to reestablish what little they had before.

He takes a deep breath.

“I'm sorry,” is what he finally says and he doesn't think he has ever meant the words more honestly.

Keith gives him a mild frown. “What for?”

“For doubting you.”

Because that's what he feels most troubled about. Not the torture, not the fact that Keith was dragged into it as well. But the uncomfortable truth that he had initially believed Keith to have ratted him out to the Galra and given away his plans of escape.

But Keith looks away. For once, the anger in him seems to have burned itself out. For once, he seems resigned.

“It's alright,” he shrugs him off.

“No,” Shiro insists, “I assumed you had betrayed me. That wasn't very loyal of me.”

“It's alright,” Keith repeats and Shiro contemplates whether he should leave him alone and give him some space or whether this moment is crucial for showing his support.

Keith is in his Galran form, a sight that has become rarer and rarer in the past weeks, but now his large ears are lowered, almost like a dogs.

Shiro wonders whether they forced him to turn back. Shiro wonders why they even have them back to him. Shiro wonders what might have happened in the two days that they were separated.

“I understand that you don't want to now,” he offers, “But if you ever feel like talking, I'm here for you.”

Keith's chest jumps in a forcibly swallowed breath. Then he whips his head up, glaring at Shiro, furious.

“Why are you like this?” he demands, and he has never been this angry, this open. Not with Shiro.

So Shiro jerks back in surprise before reminding himself that, whatever his instincts might tell him, this is no threat. He sits tight then, his voice tense, but calm.

“What do you mean?” he asks, not taking his eyes of Keith's yellow ones.

“Why are you being so nice? So understanding?!” Keith snaps, “I don't deserve it, okay? So stop. Just stop.”

“You worth is not dependent on what they think of you,” Shiro says, “I don't know what non-sense they've been telling you, but you mustn't believe them. You are not-”

“That's not it, dammit!” Keith hisses, “I sold you out, okay?!”

Shiro stills, the words meaningless in his ears. “What?”

“They said if I managed to get anything out of you, they'd free me.” Keith's teeth are bare, as are the emotions in his eyes, “So I agreed. I would have sold you out, so don't act like you are the traitor here.”

It hurts. Shiro will not deny that it hurts, but he really cannot go pointing fingers now. So he takes a deep breath, holds it there for a long moment before he slowly exhales again.

“Keith, that's... You know that I don't blame you, right?” he asks, only to get a vulnerable look in return. It turns his stomach.

“Hell, what they've done to you...,” he trails off, shakes his head in pained sympathy, “And now they offered you the chance to reverse it. Of course you would have agreed.”

There had always been something bestial about Keith in that regard, that focus on food and fight and bare naked survival. Not that Shiro could blame him. He had been honing those same instincts since he had been imprisoned.

Aboard this ship, it seemed, there was no other option for outsiders like them.

Keith purses his lips, seems to think.

“But...,” he tries, sounding almost confused about it, “You sacrificed yourself for your friend.”

It would be a random observation, but by now Shiro knows how Keith thinks. He understands what he is trying to say.

“I didn't sacrifice myself,” he points out, “I would have ended up in the arena anyway. I just gave Matt a chance to get away. If I... If I had been forced to choose between him and me... I don't know what I would have done.”

Keith lowers his head, still ashamed, and – even more gently than before – Shiro adds, “I am... scared of death and of pain. And so are you. That is normal.”

“I am Galra,” Keith says as though that would explain anything. Maybe it does, to him, to them. Maybe he still feels like he needs to prove something to his people, like he owes his pride to his heritage.

“You are your own person,” Shiro says and the look Keith sends him is refreshingly annoyed.

“I am your slave.”

“You are my friend,” Shiro corrects, “You are Keith. You are the only person in this hellhole whom I trust.”

“... me, too.”

“Huh?”

“I trust you, too,” Keith repeats, looking like it costs him to admit even that much.

“That's good,” Shiro nods and, on the mattress between them, his hand finds Keith's. He takes another calming breath. “How long did they keep you?”

“A while.”

“Did... did Rarrek...,” he begins but doesn't dare finish it.

“No,” Keith says listlessly, “No, I... I turned into a human. He thinks you guys are ugly.”

There's a bit of dark humor in there, but the smile Shiro musters is bleak at best.

“He's one to talk,” he gripes back, “His ears are ginormous.”

“Yeah,” Keith grins a little, “He thinks they make him look distinguished.”

“He looks like a hairless chimp.”

“A what?”

“A chimpanzee,” Shiro explains, “An earth animal. Vaguely related to humans.”

“I'll be sure to tell him next time,” Keith huffs and something in Shiro's chest squeezes tight.

There might very well be a next time and the threat of it looms over them like the sword of Damocles. Next time might be a repetition of what happened two days ago. Next time might end with one of them dead or maimed or insane. Next time might end with Keith in Rarrek's hands.

There must not be a next time.

Carefully, Shiro moves to run the fingertips of his flesh hand through Keith's hair. Keith does not shy away.

Encouraged by this, Shiro leans forward, leans in. Even in his Galra form, Keith does not feel or smell any different. He is still Keith, nothing more and nothing less, and Shiro presses a very gentle kiss to his temple, followed by kisses to his eyelids, his cheeks, as though re-familiarizing himself with old territory. They've been here before and it's good to be back.

Something shudders through Keith, rattles something deep inside of him. When he turns towards Shiro, it's not just his face but his entire body. He throws his arms around Shiro, pulling him close and pressing closer still. And then he is breathing, harshly, through his nose, a certain desperation to his touches, less kisses and rather attempts to hide from the universe.

If he were anyone else, Shiro thinks, Keith would surely be crying.

He cups a reassuring palm around the back of Keith's neck, loosely curls his fingers. There is a slightly uneven ridge right there, just underneath the skin, and Shiro realizes that it must be microchip that had been embedded as a means of control and punishment.

He would not allow anyone to ever use it again. He would not let Keith be hurt because of him.

Solemnly, Shiro swears to get both of them out alive.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I procrastinated writing this chapter until I procrastinated something else by writing this chapter. smh
> 
> Next chapter will be the last for this installment, so stay tuned!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry for the terribly long wait. I have no excuse except for my much cited unhappiness with how this story turned out. I really need to edit it, because from a fuckton of typos there are just so many things that don't sit right with me. But because I'm not sure whether I'll ever get around to giving it a make-over, I wanted to finish it first.  
> So here it is. Fucking finally. Thanks to all the people who, in one way or another, kicked my ass, primarily with kind comments that encouraged me to continue. Bless your shipper hearts.

They don't dare wait for long. There's no telling when Zarkon or Sendak or Rarrek will next decide to entertain themselves with their pain.

But for all the urgency of wanting to escape, Shiro's own involvement in the plan is limited. It is Keith who will carve out a path for them. There are no outward signs of whether Keith is affected by any of this, whether he is nervous or scared or doubtful. One day, he simply steps into Shiro's cabin and gives a tight nod. It is all the sign Shiro needs.

Finally, it is time.

They have a light lunch, just something to tide them over for the next few hours without weighing them down, but then there is nothing left to do. They have no personal belongings to take with them, no one to wish farewell. They will leave no mark on this ship that has put scars on them in so many different ways. The silence between them weighs heavy, meaningful, profound.

Before they leave, however, Shiro grabs Keith by the wrist, holding him back for just a moment.

“Thank you,” he says when Keith glances back at him, “For helping me.”

But Keith just shrugs, “They did tell me to follow you orders.”

There is no remorse in his voice, no worry. All these weeks Shiro had tried to determine how loyal Keith was to the Galran Empire. And all along the answer had been: not at all.

In spite of his own nerves, Shiro finds himself grinning. Keith's lips whisper an answering smirk back at him.

And then it begins.

They make their way to the training deck, their usual routine a good excuse to move around outside without raising anyone's suspicion. Under the always curious eyes of the other prisoners, they engage in a light sparring match. It has the additional benefit of warming up their muscles before they actually might have to fight some of the guards, but for that same reason they know that they mustn't exhaust themselves just yet.

Usually, when they are here together, they train for at least two hours. But that is not an option today. So a couple of minutes in, Keith gives Shiro another almost imperceptible nod.

The next time Shiro wrestles Keith down, he keeps him there, presses him into the ground with the weight of his body, covering him. Keith struggles underneath him, bucks his hips, lets out frustrated noises. Today it's entirely for show, but completely in line with how he usually acts when he is losing a match. Shiro's reaction, however, is a new one.

Ever aware of the attentive gazes on them, Shiro takes a calming breath. Then he bears down on Keith.

“Hold still,” he growls roughly. His left hand finds the exposed skin of Keith's upper thigh where the tunic has slipped up once more. Keith's breath hitches and Shiro can't quite tell whether that is pretend as well.

Gritting his jaw, his slides his hand up higher, underneath the fabric and onto Keith's sharp hipbone.

“No,” Keith protests, his struggles intensifying, “Don't.”

“Oh?” Shiro cocks a condescending eyebrow, “That's not what you said last night.”

He could vomit with how those words feel on his tongue, but he's got to play his part.

Around them some of the aliens chuckle. Keith turns his head away, going limp in Shiro's hold.

“Not- not here,” he says, more quietly but still enough for most to hear, “Please.”

“Tsk,” Shiro huffs but retreats anyway, getting to his feet and pulling Keith up in the process. A final tug to the boy's wrist and Shiro has slung him over his shoulder.

Under derisive snorts and some whistles, Shiro carries Keith off the training deck, his intent seemingly obvious.

“That kind of exercise won't help you in the arena, Champion,” one of the guards by the door warns him good-naturedly and Shiro smirks.

“It's still good training,” he claims, jostling Keith's weight a bit, “He likes to bite.”

Keith makes an indignant noise but it's drowned out by the guards' laughter. Shiro makes his way into the direction of his cabin, but as soon as they round the corner he sets Keith down.

“Sorry,” he says in contrition.

“Don't apologize,” Keith frowns, “That was part of the plan.”

And then he is already striding down the hallway and towards the elevator, so there is nothing for Shiro but to follow.

Many of the control panels do not react if a non-Galran tries to work them, so it's Keith who presses his hand to the sensor to take them to the lowest deck. It's the cargo deck, the one where Keith has spent most of his time when he was still a pilot.

They sneak along the hallways, ducking behind corners and counting out the seconds as guards pass them, timing the movement of the patrols before they move on.

Like this it takes them close to half an hour to get to the hangar, but at least they do not run into any trouble. That is, until Keith points out their intended escape vehicle.

Because Shiro doesn't know much about Galran technology, but this thing looks like the space equivalent of a rubber dinghy.

“It's been set aside for minor repairs,” Keith explains, opening the door to the pilot's seat, while Shiro realizes that maybe he should not just have the majority of the planning to Keith without making certain that Keith knew what he was doing.

“Even if it were brand new and working,” Shiro points out, fighting down the tight feeling in his chest, “That thing will never be fast enough.”

But Keith shakes his head, already climbing into the cockpit.

“We are close to a wormhole which opens not far away from your planet,” he says, “That should do it.”

“How?” Shiro objects, scrambling up and onto the seat of the co-pilot. He is hit by an odd sense of déjà vu because somehow this reminds him of his early days as a cadet. “You don't even know where my home planet is.”

“There is a data log for every prisoner, stating their name, species and planet of origin,” Keith points out as he fires up the console. Around them, the ship hums to life.

“But-”

“And the circumstances of their capture,” Keith adds, “You were caught close to a gas giant-”

“Jupiter,”

“- and that's where the wormhole opens up.”

“It's still too far away from Earth,” Shiro gasps, “Just getting there took months. This thing is not equipped for deep space travel and-”

Keith levels him with a look. “Superior species, remember?” he says dryly, “Superior science included.”

Right. Galran ships probably moved a lot faster than Terran ones. So Shiro takes a deep breath, hoping to calm the panic that had overwhelmed him so suddenly. He can trust Keith, in this and in everything.

“Alright,” he says, making a point of leaning back in his seat and facing forward, “Take us out of here, pilot.”

 

“This is where you accelerate,” Keith explains, his fingers moving across the control panel so deftly that Shiro has trouble following, “It can't go very fast, so you have to be gentle with it.”

They have taken the ship to the hangar without any complications. So far, everything had gone according to plan. That means that of course something has to go wrong at some point.

“Alright,” Keith nods to himself and then lifts himself out of his seat, “You take over.”

“What?” Shiro says, alarmed because even though he paid attention he does not feel comfortable piloting this thing.

“I have to open the hangar. Can't do that from in here,” Keith explains. It would almost sound akin to exasperation, but there is something else there. A strange hush to his voice, a breathlessness. Maybe it's just the excitement.

He opens the hatch on his side of the ship and makes to climb out. Before he does, however, he stills for a moment, just looking at Shiro. Then he gives himself a push and jumps out of the opening.

Shiro quickly takes his place, craning his head to see where Keith hits the ground running and takes off into the direction of where the first doors to the separate hangars open.

That is, of course, when things start to go wrong.

Just as Keith has manually pulled the lever that opens the hangar, he is noticed by the guards on patrol.

“Hey!” one of them calls out, “Hey, what are you doing?”

Keith doesn't answer, just swivels around with a growl.

“Look at him,” the other guard says, “He's dressed like a slave.”

“There are no pick-ups scheduled for today,” the first one says, “Get that ship back where it belongs.”

Instead of even trying to come up with a credible story, Keith does what he does best. He charges right at them. Shiro resists the urge to bang his head against the headboard. Instead, he somewhat awkwardly maneuvers the ship into the hangar, though he still cranes his neck to see what is happening below.

Keith, agile and wiry, seems to be holding his own against the guards. In their surprise, he has managed to disarm one of them, while he is now wrestling the other for his phaser gun. The first one, sitting on the floor and looking a little stunned, quickly regains his bearings. He does not reach for his weapon, however, and instead grabs the communication device attached to his belt.

“Code Seven-Four-Seven,” he barks out, “Get Officer Rarrek down to hangar 14!”

Shiro has no idea what Code Seven-Four-Seven is, but he knows that he does not want to risk another encounter with Rarrek, especially not so soon after Keith has suffered under the Galra's hands.

In that moment, Keith is thrown back, landing hard on his shoulder and sliding along the ground. Unlike the guards, he is not wearing any sort of armor and when he pushes himself up his unprotected skin is scraped and sore. That, however, is the least of his problems because a moment later he finds two barrels pointed at him.

Shiro curses under his breath. Then he pushes himself out of his seat and abandons ship.

He lands right on top of one of the guards. A shot goes astray but Keith neatly ducks out of its way.

“What the-” the other Galra swears, swerving around to train his gun on Shiro instead, “The champion?”

“My bad,” Shiro says, diving forward, sliding around the ground and then kicking the man's legs from under him. The Glara goes down, hard, the gun slipping from his hands, but then Shiro is already upon him, gets an arm around his neck, and like this the armor is only feeble protection. Underneath him, the Galra is grappling at for the knife he carries in a holster strapped to his thigh, pulling it free, but the strength is already going out of him.

Shiro grits his teeth, waits for the telltale crack of bone, and then lets his opponent go.

When he gets to his feet again, he finds Keith staring at him. Numbly, it occurs to Shiro that Keith has possibly never seen him fight in the arena. Keith has never seen him kill.

Shiro bites his tongue and squares his shoulders. This is no moment for weakness. They've got to get out of here and fast.

Down the hallway, he can already hear the sound of heavy footsteps.

Rarrek, he thinks in blinding white panic, but before it can even turn into anything more concrete than that, his gaze has landed on the knife lying in the limply curled fingers of the dead guard. So Shiro bends down, takes up the unfamiliar weapon, tests the feel of it in his grip. The sharp edge gleams under the fluorescent lights.

“Keith,” he says, already reaching out and quickly pushing Keith up against the side of the poorly parked ship.

His cybernetic hand is in Keith's hair, tugging his head to the side and holding him in place. With his left, he raises the blade to Keith's neck and makes a small incision. It takes a bit of trying, a bit of digging, Keith wincing quietly, but then Shiro fumbles out the chip from underneath his skin.

When he pulls back, Keith's breath is sharp and shallow and he is staring at Shiro with wide liquid eyes.

“What on Galra was that for?” he demands angrily, but his voice cracks a little.

“The microchip,” Shiro tells him, dropping it to the floor and then crushing it with his heel for good measure, “In case we run into someone who has one of those remote controls.”

Keith's breath stutters, “A little warning would have been nice.”

Shiro blinks, only now really catching up to how his move might have been misconstrued.

“You... thought I would slit your throat?” he asks, his throat dry, but Keith just gives a violent shrug.

“Less witnesses,” he points out.

Before Shiro can say anything in reply, however, more guards show up. And they are being led by Rarrek.

“The audacity,” the officer growls as soon as he spots them. His fists are clenched at his sides, but the real threat at the armed soldiers flanking him.

“When I heard that a slave was trying to escape I hadn't dare to entertain the idea that it might be you,” he says, stepping closer, “But who else would be foolish enough to attempt such an endeavor but you, Kithnarak?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Keith snaps, tugging Shiro behind the ship to grant them momentary cover. And not too soon because a second later a phaser shot zaps past them.

“Don't kill them,” Rarrek barks at his men, “We need the champion alive.”

“But the slave-”, one of them protests.

“I want him alive, too,” Rarrek says, “He's not getting out easy this time.”

“How are we gonna do this?” Shiro asks, feebly trying to squish down the anxiety in his stomach, but the odds are not exactly in their favor right now.

“Get back into the ship,” Keith just tells him. He is crouched on the ground, peering across the hangar.

“But what about-?”

“I'll hold them back,” Keith tells him. His adam's apple bobs as he swallows. Next to it a trickle of blood runs along his skin.

“What?” Shiro bursts out, “No!”

“This is the only way,” Keith insists, “I know what I am doing. Now go.”

After a moment of warring with himself, Shiro does as he is told. Trust, he reminds himself. Trust is key.

“Kithnarak,” Rarrek calls out from somewhere just as Shiro is climbing back into the ship, “If you surrender yourself, I promise I'll plead your case to Commander Sendak. I can't say you'll go unpunished, but I promise to make it gentle.”

It's the exact opposite of what he had said before, and Shiro's skin crawls just listening to the words, but then he is already kicking up the engine again.

“I said, fuck off, Rarrek,” Keith hisses back. The words are so venomous, he must have been wanting to say them for a very long time.

“The champion has warped your mind,” Rarrek tells him, “Would you really rather lay with a pale-faced alien than with one of your own kind?”

“I can think of a million things that I'd rather do than you,” Keith huffs. In the shadow of the ship, he has relieved the dead guard of his helmet, slipping it onto his own head.

“Then I hope dying is among them,” Rarrek threatens and suddenly he is in front of Keith. In his hand he is holding the terrible torture device that activates the micro chip and he is pointing it right at Keith.

“What the-,” he curses a mere moment later when nothing happens, and he presses the button again, more forcefully this time.

“Sorry,” Keith smirks, “You're a little too late for that.”

He grabs the dead guard's phaser gun, trains it on Rarrek's chest, and shoots. The effect is instantaneous. Rarrek seizes up and then he crumbles down where he stands, but Keith is not even looking at him, already firing at the other soldiers.

“Disregard orders!” one of them shouts, “Kill the slave!”

Keith, in his recklessness, just makes a mad dash across the hangar.

“Shiro!” he calls, “Now!”

Shiro fumbles with the various buttons on the dashboard, gets the ship off-ground again and directs it forward where Keith is ducking behind a control panel, no doubt to open up the gate of the hangar. That's why he must have put on the helm for, so he would still be able to breathe at least, yet without a proper suit the vacuum of space would still doubtlessly harm him.

And Keith must know that, Keith must know how dangerous this is. And yet. And yet he looks so determined, so ferocious, and in that moment it occurs to Shiro that he had never asked Keith to escape with him.

It's a time-stopping thought, a heart-stilling one. It's a terrible oversight.

Keith, after all his promises of getting Shiro out of here, seems to have accepted the idea that he would be left behind. That he would sacrifice himself. That Shiro wouldn't even protest.

He couldn't be more wrong.

“Keith!” Shiro yells, throwing the hatch open, “Come with me!”

Keith, with eyes like infinite violet nebulae, stares up at him, uncomprehending.

“Please,” Shiro begs, “I can't just leave you here.”

Something jerks through Keith then, understanding or electricity, and his hand reaches for the controls.

“Put on the helmet!” he warns, barely waiting for Shiro to react, and then he flips the switch.

The guards shout and shoot and Shiro nearly drops the helmet that is mounted above the dashboard and doubtlessly connected to some sort of oxygen supply in case of emergencies.

In front of him the hangar opens with a groan, yawning wide like the maw of a terribly beast, only that is promises freedom instead of death.

Keith, with frantic grace, jumps out from his hiding place and scrambles up the side of the cargo ship. A shot zips just past his head, but then he is already squeezing in through the hatch and pulling it shut behind him. Like this, he is practically perched in Shiro's lap but, without any words, he puts his hands to the controls.

The ship purrs underneath his touch, proving just how capable of a pilot he must have been before he was demoted, and a second later Shiro is pressed back in his seat as the ship accelerates from stand-still to just this side of too fast.

Behind them, the guards are helplessly trying to hold on to something instead of being sucked out into the vastness of space, but Shiro couldn't care less about that right now.

They pass the gate of the hangar, the stars opening up in front of them, and this is not quite how Shiro ever imagined his escape because he is technically still in a Galran ship, he is still in the presence of an actual Galra, but for once he is not afraid.

“We just have to make it to the wormhole,” Keith mutters under his breath, deftly turning the ship to the left.

Just the wormhole, Shiro thinks. Just the wormhole and then some, and then he will be home. Home for the first time in months and months. He has lost his crew and his arm and a good chunk of his innocence, but the only thing on his mind right now is victory.

“Keith,” he says. With numb fingertips he pulls the helmet from his head, lets it fall onto the empty seat of the co-pilot.

“Keith,” again, when Keith does not react.

“Trying to concentrate here,” Keith growls lowly. Ahead of them, the wormhole is visible, glowing ominously.

Perhaps, he is always like this. Perhaps, when he is not wearing a figurative slave collar, when he is not subjected to someone else's will, Keith is always this terse and curt and annoyed. Perhaps this is the first time Shiro truly gets to see him.

And he wants to see him, his face and his fierce eyes, so he does the only thing that seems logical and detaches the helmet from Keith's head.

Keith hisses a little, bucks up his shoulders and then ducks free, shakes his head once, making his dark hair fly. His gaze is still directed towards their destination, but when Shiro puts his hand on his chin he moves along with it, lets his face be tilted up, so that Shiro can lean in, lean around him and dip down.

Their lips meet, salty with sweat, chapped from worrying teeth, but it's perfect like this, it's just right because this is what this moment amounts to. It's so much more than just a sign of affection, as Shiro has told himself so many times before. This is desperation and relief and liberation. This is victory.

Keith makes a quiet noise into his mouth and, when he turns them into the wormhole, his eyes finally slip shut as though he too had been waiting for this.

Around them space is infinite and, finally, Shiro is allowed to return home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I originally promised that this would not be a standalone and I have several ideas on what a continuation from Keith's POV would look like, but just to be on the safe side, I won't make any promises for that for now.  
> If you like my Galra!Keith (I probably don't need to write it like that anymore since it's actually canon now), though, I encourage you to check out my very filthy Voyager series. Or any of the other stuff I've written. Season 2 has been kind to us.
> 
> Thank you so much for everyone who has stuck around for so long. Or for those who just joined in. Or those who forgot about this story but now got to finish it. You are all lovely and I hope you enjoyed this mess anyway. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [tumblr!](https://dawnstruck.tumblr.com/)


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